


Once Upon Another Time

by AntiKryptonite



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Romance, Suspense, fork in the road, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 84,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiKryptonite/pseuds/AntiKryptonite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every decision sets the course of history. Every person, hero or villain, has a story stretching back to one pivotal moment. What happened if that moment changed? What would happen if Rumplestiltskin didn't become the Dark One? But no matter how much changes, no matter how different history is, some things will always remain the same, no matter what world we're in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Still, Small Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to roberre, the best beta anyone could ever have!

\---

_The woods were dark, black and empty and foreboding, a stark and terrifying contrast to the carnelian and amber brilliance of the flames destroying the castle he’d invaded and then left far behind. He had escaped that fire, but he still wasn’t safe. He was never safe, and neither was Bae._

 _Unless the beggar had told him the truth._

 _

Hope dangled before him in the form of a fireside tale and he clenched salvation in his sweating hand. 

Rumplestiltskin took a deep, shuddering breath and raised the dagger before him, examining it by the light of the flickering torch he clasped in his other hand. He felt like a beacon, standing alone in the dark, the last sentinel protecting his son, all that stood between noble and beautiful Baelfire and a gruesome, pointless death on a faraway battlefield. He closed his eyes, pictured Bae in his mind, the hazel darkness of his eyes, the drape of hair over his forehead, the way he felt when he clung to Rumplestiltskin and simply breathed. 

He wasn’t a brave man—he would never be that—but he could pretend. For Bae. (Pretend for his son, as he had once pretended when facing a pirate crew, but he couldn’t think of that, because this time he couldn’t fail.) 

“Zoso,” he said, so quietly that he couldn’t imagine the Dark One could have possibly heard him. “Zoso!” he said again, louder, closer to commanding. “Zoso, I summon thee!” 

Nothing. 

The disappointment was so great, so resounding, that Rumplestiltskin felt his legs buckle and the darkness flashed with sparks going off at the edge of his vision. All of it for nothing—the wasted wool, the fire, the danger, the flaming tapestries, the days he’d wasted on this scheme when he could have been putting as many miles behind them as a lame spinner and a young boy could manage. He’d been brave, and in the end, what did it matter? Nothing at all, and he was vaguely surprised he had ever expected any differently. 

But, no, he couldn’t afford to think like that. Bae was still in danger, and dawn would still bring his fourteenth birthday, so Rumplestiltskin locked his knees and straightened himself. 

The knife had been hidden, guarded, locked away, therefore it was important. It was exactly where the beggar had told him it would be, and there was a name engraved on it just as he had said, so Rumplestiltskin could not give up. There was something to this knife—there _had_ to be—so he would stand here until the entire world turned as red as the skies and the ogres all crumbled to dust if that was what it took to keep Bae safe. 

He turned, fighting disappointment, and came face to face with a cloaked and hooded form standing far too close. 

Rumplestiltskin jerked backward, grabbed hold of his walking stick where it rested in the crook of his elbow, letting the torch drop to the forest floor even as his other hand tightened almost painfully over the knife. He had survived a fire just an hour earlier, but the knife was all that kept Bae with him. He couldn’t lose it. He wouldn’t let go of it. He would use it—to kill if need be (though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that). 

“You were asking for me,” the Dark One intoned, and power and menace ground his voice to gravel. Superstitious and ingrained fear ran through Rumplestiltskin’s veins, twisting and snarling around his spine. His walking stick was in his hand, tilted and useless, but it was a poor weapon; in his other hand he held the mystical dagger. 

“Submit, oh Dark One!” he commanded. Pleaded. Images of all the Dark One’s power and the pain he could inflict so casually, the punishments he could dole out, the magic he could summon with the mere wave of his hand—all of it rushed through Rumplestiltskin’s mind in a dizzying swirl that left him limp and boneless with expectant terror. 

Except his hand still held the dagger between them, and Bae’s name was a talisman, protecting him from danger so long as he chanted it over and over in his head to fight back the fearsome memories of the mysterious figure that ensured a frightened populace’s obedience to the Duke of the Frontlands. 

“I control you,” Rumplestiltskin said. He waited, unable to breathe, because everything the beggar had told him was true so far, but…but this was the _Dark One_ in front of him! And Rumplestiltskin was only a poor spinner, a helpless father desperate to save his son, a crippled man who had given all he could to a harsh world and couldn’t give up any more. 

“Yes, you do,” Zoso said calmly, and Rumplestiltskin was frozen. The torch lay in a guttering puddle of light, flickering like dying hopes against the blackness of the forest, and suddenly it all seemed like a dream. Utterly surreal, wholly impossible, completely incomprehensible. Rumplestiltskin was a coward, this he knew above all else. And the Dark One was untouchable—that was a fact known by all the desperate parents of the Frontlands. 

Yet here they stood. 

Zoso didn’t move, didn’t alter his stance in the slightest. His face was masked in shadows, and yet he seemed altogether too calm for a man who was nothing more than a puppet to the hand that sheathed his knife. (But then…he _wasn’t_ a man, was he?) 

“Wield the power wisely,” the Dark One advised Rumplestiltskin. 

It was a warning, and in the tales Bae loved so much, the hero who didn’t take the time to heed such cautions usually ended up regretting it. Not that Rumplestiltskin was a hero, but he was all his son had. He needed a moment to think, then, a moment to remember all the careful words he had strung together in purposeful lines and polished to gleam with power while he bathed wool in lanolin. 

But it was hard to think when his good leg ached and his bad leg burned, when that torch was still flickering and dancing at the corners of his vision, when the knife sat in his hand with such unaccustomed weight. 

When the Dark One wouldn’t be quiet and let him _think_. 

“You can wield at any time now,” he taunted. When he moved, slightly, stepping forward, Rumplestiltskin instinctively backed away, thrusting the knife higher between them. “It’s almost dawn now,” Zoso hissed. “That means it’s your son’s birthday. I bet Hordor and his men are already on their way to your house.” 

“No, they can’t take him!” Rumplestiltskin stated fiercely, desperately. The familiar feeling of helpless urgency sang through him, beating with every thump of his heart, inhaled and exhaled with every movement of his lungs. The nightmares he’d endured over the past two years assailed him again, all the more powerful for visiting him during his waking hours, so much so that all he could see was Bae being dragged away, so small and vulnerable and fragile in Hordor’s cruel and smug grip. Bae being given pitiful weapons and sent to the front lines. Bae trying to be brave and strong and noble (and what good would those wonderful, beloved attributes be to him then?) as the ogres raced toward him, their footsteps shaking the ground, their blind eyes staring straight at the small boy standing so immovably before them. 

Bae broken and bloody and no longer breathing. His son reduced to a pile of bones and flesh and clothes. 

Rumplestiltskin shook and trembled beneath the onslaught of nightmarish images, but his hand was rock-steady, the Dark One’s knife never wavering. 

But Zoso was shaking his head. “You don’t control them. You control me.” Somehow, at some point, the Dark One had grown close, so close that Rumplestiltskin could feel the coldness emanating from him, could look straight into the shadows of his cowl and still see only corpse-white flesh cloaked in concealing darkness. His voice slithered straight into Rumplestiltskin’s soul, twisting deeper and deeper, lodging itself so tightly there that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get it free. 

“Have you ever wondered…was he really your child at all? Unlike you, he’s not a coward, and yearns to fight and die in glory.” 

“No,” he whispered, but it was nothing more than the tiny, broken plea of a tiny, broken man. Milah was there, suddenly, standing in front of him, never quite looking at him, casting scorn and derision and a lifetime of regrets on his lap. And her pirate captor, her killer, flicking Rumplestiltskin’s face with a cold, sharp blade and denouncing him before the world. And Hordor, twisted and cruel and domineering. All of them, reflected there in the torchlight that was sucked in and devoured by the Dark One’s form. All of them trying to tear Bae away from him. 

“What a poor bargain that would be,” Zoso continued, rivulets of pleased sadism sharpening the edges of that gravelly voice, “to lay down your soul to save your bastard son.” 

And for the first time, Rumplestiltskin felt something touch and weave through and temper his fear and desperation. He felt anger pool in his stomach, felt fury lick its way up his body, felt rage scorch the insides of his mind. The knife felt like molten courage in his hand, solid and real and for once so easy to attain, and for the first time in his life, Rumplestiltskin wasn’t the helpless one. Because Zoso was standing in front of him…but he hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t touched him. The Dark One—and Rumplestiltskin (Hobblefoot, Spindleshanks, coward) had him in thrall. 

Power, strange and unfamiliar and alien, filled him up from the inside out and Rumplestiltskin felt his spine straighten and his legs strengthen and his vision clear. Everything seemed suddenly quiet and calm and peaceful, while Zoso’s taunts and intimations fell uselessly before him, like arrows spent before they reached their target. 

The Dark One leaned forward, intimidating his master. “So I ask you: what would you have me do?” 

Rumplestiltskin wanted to lift the knife and plunge it into Zoso’s chest. He wanted to unleash the entire lifetime’s worth of fury he’d never realized he held yet could now feel roiling inside of him. He wanted to kill the Dark One and take all that wonderful, unbelievable, invigorating power for himself. (He wanted to silence the taunts and whispers and rumors that had followed him since Bae’s birth.) 

It would be so easy. Only lift his hand and let it fall again, with more force behind it, and give one simple command—his first—to the Dark One he now controlled. 

“Die.” 

So easy. So simple. So quick. 

But it was almost as if that was what the Dark One _wanted_ him to do. As if he were baiting him, mocking him, leading him ever on into a trap. 

And Rumplestiltskin was tired of being led around, controlled by forces outside of himself. 

So he shook his head and let his hand drop to his side. “Why do you want me to kill you?” he asked. 

For the first time, Rumplestiltskin saw a flash of emotion in Zoso’s fluid, mysterious features. The cloaked form drew back slightly, surprised, perhaps even taken aback. 

“Tell me,” Rumplestiltskin commanded, the knife burning so hotly in his hand that he was half-afraid he’d bear the brand of it on his palm forever afterward. 

Resentment coiled through that crushed voice as Zoso answered. “All magic comes with a price. I am tired of being the one who pays it.” 

“So you want _me_ to?” Rumplestiltskin asked. He was not surprised; he only felt tired, unutterably weary of being used. 

“I know how to recognize a desperate soul,” Zoso hissed, and Rumplestiltskin was not so confident in his newfound power that he didn’t feel a surge of fear at the hatred rolling outward from the Dark One. “You want power and I have it to give—seems a worthwhile bargain.” 

“But not one I want to make,” Rumplestiltskin decided. Slowly, purposely, he sheathed the magical knife in his belt and stooped to pick up the guttering torch. “I don’t want to pay any price. I just want to save my son.” 

“What is your command?” Zoso asked, defeat banking the sibilant hiss of his earlier words, resignation making him look smaller than he had only a moment before. 

“Take me to my house,” Rumplestiltskin commanded. “We’re going to kill Hordor and his men and whoever else tries to hurt my son. And then we’re going to end the Ogre’s War.” 

When the world swirled all about him at his command, Rumplestiltskin felt stronger, more powerful, than he ever had before in his life. When smoke danced away to reveal Hordor dragging his son out of his house, Rumplestiltskin felt a cold, grim smile curve his lips upward. When the Dark One slaughtered the soldiers that had frightened and terrorized him and all the families of the Frontlands, Rumplestiltskin felt his fear actually receding, disappearing, wiped away as if it had never been. 

When Bae was safe in his arms, trying not to cry and asking a dozen questions in the space of a breath and _there_ , Rumplestiltskin decided that he _liked_ the feel of power.

_

\-- 

The moment the savior first sets foot in Storybrooke, Mr. Gold feels the spark of power sizzle through the air, a chain reaction prompted by dormant magic stirring from its long slumber, a spark that travels invisibly through stagnant air to reach him. It grows into a tingle, resonating in every particle of his being, reawakening and revitalizing him. He feels alive and awake and aware, all things he hasn’t felt for exactly twenty-eight years to the day. 

He is out of the door of his quiet shop without even bothering to lock it behind him, his cane clutched painfully tight in his hand. As he walks the streets that were built at his aloof direction, he takes in deep breaths of air and feels a freshness that wasn’t there only moments before. He’s been living a dream for almost three decades, and now finally, the dream is fading away, loosening its grip to the point where he can _feel_ its tenuousness. 

Freedom is so close that it is almost tangible, and he imagines he can smell it in the new scents the stirring air brings him. 

He does not need to ask anyone where the savior is, does not need to procure directions. Instead, he follows the feel of her power and reality and prophesied purpose as clearly as if there is a blazing path laid out before him. It is dark and the stars are dim and distant in the sky above him; more closely, the lights of Storybrooke shine vaguely, absently. When he sees her, standing beside a yellow bug parked across the street from Granny’s bed and breakfast, her hair—as golden as her father’s—glinting in the ambient light, he has to blink to shield his eyes from the brilliance she casts out around her. 

The savior, finally here to save him from this hell and free him to be a hero. 

The car she leans against so casually, her arms crossed over her chest as she calmly surveys the town sprawling out around her (a trap so cunningly designed to confine and conceal), is cheerful and ostentatious and not at all what he expected the savior to come riding into town in. But the desperate cannot be choosy about their saviors, he thinks, so he merely gives an inward shrug and continues toward her. 

It could be something of a sacred trek, this long, slow walk toward his salvation. He could ponder all the things that brought him here, could contemplate what might have been done differently. But it is better, he has found, to leave the past in the past and to focus only on what he needs, what he must obtain, what he will one day find. The past is harsh and cold and empty and it doesn’t matter at all except in that it happened. The future is much more immediate and pressing, and the present infinitely more useful. 

She sees him coming before he reaches her, and straightens slowly, her hands falling to her sides. Gold gives her a half-smile (the only smile that comes easily to him now) and pauses a healthy distance from her. 

“Good evening,” he greets her softly. 

“Hey,” she replies, standoffish and wary. Her red jacket soaks in the light but her hair reflects it, as do her eyes. Gold has never been anyone’s friend (not truly, not wholly, not without betraying or being betrayed), but he spent enough time with James (David, really, but he’d been a better prince than James ever dreamed of being) and Snow, before the end, to recognize pieces of each of them in this woman before him, come to the call of destiny like a sheep led to the slaughter. 

Of course, her fate will be much kinder than that of the proverbial sheep’s. 

Probably. 

He leans on his cane, examines her surreptitiously. “New to town, I see. Just visiting, or are you here to stay?” 

“Just visiting,” she replies shortly. Her silhouette is clean and narrow now that she is standing straight, and there is the sense of coiled energy wound up within her tall, slender form. She does not seem inclined to trust him, though he is small and seemingly frail with a limp that slows him, and there is suspicion in her eyes as she regards him. She is not the average cut of hero made famous in countless stories and idealistic books. She is more cynical, perhaps, harsher, more jagged around the edges. 

Gold approves. 

Of course, he thinks, he has been waiting for this moment for so long (sacrificed so much for it, paid for it a hundred times over) that perhaps he is more inclined to soften his standards. 

“Naturally,” he says and allows the hint of a wry smile. “It’s a small town and we don’t get many visitors—pardon my curiosity.” 

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly my idea to come,” she says with a shrug, her suspicion at least mildly allayed. She leans back against her car again, though she does not take her eyes off him. 

“Few volunteered to come here,” Gold says, amused by the humor only he can see in this situation. He is content to stand here and converse with the savior for long moments more (savor the unpredictability of conversation with someone whose lines haven’t all been written and replayed a hundred times over, who is new and powerful and exciting), but he does not want the mayor to be suspicious of him. She would not hesitate to kill him, he knows, should he draw undue attention to himself. 

“I can see why,” the savior says acerbically, then winces and gives him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, it’s just…not really much around here, is there?” 

“Oh, there’s more than you might imagine,” he tells her, but he knows his warnings fall on deaf ears. They generally do. “Will you be here long?” 

“I don’t know.” The woman flicks her eyes away from him to take in an encompassing glance of the town. “It’s not really up to me. I’m only here because of a favor I owed to a friend.” 

“Ah.” Gold narrows his eyes at her and shifts his weight. “Owing favors is always a tricky thing.” 

The savior eyes him, an eyebrow arched. “Yeah. Sure, I guess.” He has startled her, he thinks, or perhaps he has discomfited her. It would not be an uncommon reaction to his attempts at conversation. Cryptic remarks and inside jokes no one else has the memory to understand are not inclined to endear him to anyone, even without his more unsavory reputation. 

“I’m sorry, how rude of me,” he says with the precise amount of flustered embarrassment, mingled with just a touch of ironic humor. Enough to let her know, if she is watching as carefully as he knows she is, that he is not really flustered and that this is a game he is playing, for reasons she does not (cannot) know. “I’m Mr. Gold.” 

“Mr. Gold,” she repeats with another quirk of her eyebrows. He cannot help but hold his breath as he waits, hushed and expectant and tingling with that awareness, for her reply. “Huh. Nice to meet you.” 

He breathes out a soft sigh of disappointment when she does not give him her name in return. He remembers it (of course he does, he paid for that in blood too, blood and death and betrayal), but he _needs_ to hear her say it. Needs to remind himself that he is not as crazy as everyone in town thinks he is. 

There are no crickets to break the silence that falls then, and aside from the glow surrounding Emma (the energy that is drawn to her outlining her in a haloed nimbus) there is nothing to illuminate them. The bed and breakfast seems suddenly farther away, and Gold is not the only one who notices. He manages a thin smile when Emma first shrinks into herself, then braces and straightens. 

She pauses before letting out a quiet huff of air. “Emma,” she tells him. “Emma Swan.” 

The moment is surprisingly anticlimactic. She says it, there is a brief flash of sheer satisfaction, almost smugness, radiating through him, and then nothing. It is just a name, albeit one oft-repeated and long thought of. 

“Emma,” he repeats, to make it more real, to solidify the two syllables in his mind. It is the first time he has spoken the name since the curse engulfed the land. “What a lovely name.” 

She is studying him through narrowed eyes, again, puzzled and suspicious still. He doesn’t have time to soothe her concerns. 

“Emma!” A man lopes toward her, emerging from the bed and breakfast, his hand upraised to catch the woman’s attention. Gold watches him come, flicks a glance to Emma to see her rolling her eyes and nodding at the approaching stranger, a silhouetted form that resolves into a man with dark hair betraying a hint of curl and a slight beard tracing the planes of his face. 

“Get the rooms all right?” Emma asks. 

The man takes a long time to reply. He is staring at Gold, first intently, then with rising…horror? fear? confusion?…before it is all subsumed beneath a polite mask, a careful smile, a casual reply. “Of course. I told you I’d take care of everything. You need to have more faith.” 

Gold smiles (another small smile that is easily masked by the shadows he stands in, separated from the spotlight on Emma and her companion). It appears that, despite lingering doubts, the puppet has actually come through for them. 

“This is Mr. Gold.” Emma points to him. “And this,” she jerks a thumb back at her companion, “is August Booth.” 

“August _W._ Booth,” the man interjects with playfulness most would think natural. “You always forget the W.” 

“Can’t imagine why,” Emma mutters. “So, how long did you book the rooms for?” 

“Why? In a hurry to leave already?” Their words sound as rote, as worn and faded, as the scripts the Storybrooke residents have followed for nearly three decades. Gold can tell this is an argument they have rehearsed and recited a dozen or a hundred times before. The savior, he realizes, has not come willingly. 

Not that it matters. The curse recognizes what can destroy it, realizes those who share some kinship with it, restrains all it finds in its net. Now that Emma ( _Emma_ , and he remembers David confiding the name to him, remembers trust and hope and desperation in a combination so sickeningly familiar) is here, Gold does not fear her leaving. 

“Well, a pleasure to meet you both,” Gold cuts in, and does not miss the slight flinch August betrays at the sound of his voice. He wonders if, in the years they’ve been separated, the memory of his voice has comforted August or haunted him. “But I’ll wish you both a good night. I’m sure you’ve been informed, Mr. Booth, but the diner next door is adequate if you’re hungry.” 

“Just adequate?” Emma asks, her brow arched yet again. He thinks that suspicion is probably the emotion (the mindset) she is most comfortable with. He wonders if that will help or hinder her. The mayor is a woman prone to spotting challenges, adept at subtlety, and practiced at insinuating herself into the good graces of those she plans to murder. But then, murder is more difficult here than simply reaching out a hand and plucking a heart ripe for crushing. 

“The food is passable—it’s the company I don’t much care for,” Gold says casually. “And we rarely receive strangers, so you’ll be stared at. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He begins walking again, tosses a “Good night” over his shoulder, and resists the urge to look back. He can feel their eyes on him, imagines he hears their hushed whispering begin as soon as he puts a bit of distance between them. But it would be too dangerous to have stayed longer and foolhardy to turn back or follow them into the diner. 

The only way he has survived this long, the reason the script has not altered to accommodate his death, is by avoiding attention. So he ignores the way the townspeople he passes on his way back to his quiet store avoid him to the point of crossing to the opposite side of the street, the way they slide their eyes past him and pretend not to see him. He refuses to imagine what is happening behind him, even when he sees the sheriff racing toward the diner in his squad car, his eyes tight with pain (as they always are after his visits to the hospital) and the stress brought on by always having to answer to the mayor’s every whim. 

Gold keeps his eyes fixed forward and he puts one foot in front of the other, and he comforts himself with the fact that now, _finally_ , he is moving toward something more than another day checked off his prison sentence. Now, finally, he will see how much of the curse he managed to save and how much was ruined beyond repair by the loopholes he’d found too late inserted throughout. 

His shop is quiet and dark and forgotten by the rest of the town, shoved into an obscure corner between abandoned buildings. But it is familiar and within it he has gathered trinkets of power and souvenirs of the past, dying echoes of a world so few now remember. 

He enters the shop and closes the door firmly behind him. Locks it. Climbs the stairs to the small, cramped apartment above the shop where he lives. Sits at his wheel and begins to spin. Inwardly, his mind whirls with plans that take cohesive shape as his fingers wind wool into thread. Outwardly, he smiles, because when he is planning he can forget that he is so utterly alone. 

“Emma,” he whispers, and though no one hears him, it is a victory cry.

\---


	2. The Shepherding Game

\---

_“Papa, no!” Bae cried out, and for a horrible moment, he thought he was too late._

_The butcher let out a harsh, gurgling sound, more a whimper than anything else, his fingers scrabbling ineffectually at his throat and the black-purple bruises emerging there as if by magic. No. No_ as if _. They_ did _appear by magic._

_Dark magic._

_Bae wrenched his eyes from the big man’s plight and tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Please, Papa,” he murmured. “That’s enough—we’re safe, it’s all right. Just…just let him go.”_

_“Bae,” Rumplestiltskin murmured, as if recalling himself to the present, to his son. Bae felt a sharp tremor surge through him, but he hid it away and forced a slight smile for his papa’s sake._

_“Let him go,” he commanded softly._

_Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrowed. Months earlier, Bae would have said that he would prefer_ anything _to the defeated brokenness that had once so characterized his father. Now he knew better. In the place of dull resignation and hopelessness, there were the beginnings of cruelty, the marks of a condescending sneer, the harshness of suspicion and long suppressed rage. Bae wasn’t sure that it was_ worse _than the sorrow, but it was at least just as bad._

_“He was trying to take the knife,” Rumplestiltskin told his son, as if Bae couldn’t tell what was going on. It had taken him only seconds after ducking inside with his ball clutched in his hands (trying so hard to look happy so that his father wouldn’t know he was lonely and miserable), to assess the situation. The butcher, large and unwieldy, his hands calloused and rough—and Bae knew that so well, didn’t he, after all the times he’d brought a wet cloth to nurse his father’s wounds following Rumplestiltskin’s infrequent forays to try and buy meat—had been writhing on the floor, the knife floating in a sphere made of simmering magic._

_Rumplestiltskin stepped forward and snatched the knife possessively from the air, the magicked sphere disappearing at his touch. “He was trying to steal from us!” he spat, his lip curled as he glared down at the butcher lying at his feet. “_

_And he’s been punished for it!” Bae insisted, moving forward to keep even with his father. He knew, by now, that his only chance of dissuading his father from the vindictiveness he seemed to have learned in such a short time was to make sure that his father saw him rather than the people he hated and loathed. “He won’t try again, Papa! Now, please…please, just let him go. You don’t have to kill him.”_

_The butcher’s life hung in peril for an instant more before Rumplestiltskin sighed and nodded. “Fine,” he growled, swinging back to the butcher, his voice going high and almost unrecognizable. “But don’t try to sneak back in here—you’ll get a nasty surprise should you try!”_

_The butcher gasped in a sudden, sharp breath as the pressure disappeared from his throat, and mirroring him, Bae let out a quiet sigh of relief. He wanted to move forward and help the man stand up, but he feared what his father would do should he see the butcher lay a hand on him. So instead he just watched as the town bully—well, the man who had been the town bully before Bae’s father had taken over that position—stumbled to his feet and lurched out of their house._

_As soon as he was gone, Bae turned his gaze to his father. He could tell Rumplestiltskin was made uncomfortable by it, because he turned and busied himself with sheathing the knife in his belt._

_“Papa,” Bae said sharply, his eyes narrowed. He hated the changes in his father, hated seeing him grow harsh and cruel, hated the knife that was always either hanging in his father’s belt or secreted away in the locked box beneath their table, but most of all he hated—_

_“Well, I thought he’d never leave.” With a shimmer and a snapping sound, as if he’d popped in from another world rather than just banished his invisibility spell, Zoso sprang into sight, sitting at the table, hunched over and cackling through ruined teeth and golden-ridged skin._

_Bae sighed as his stomach contracted into a tight ball._

_Most of all, he hated Zoso._

_Rumplestiltskin studied his enthralled servant closely, leaning heavily on his staff now that the knife was safe at his side. Suspicion etched deep grooves across the features more familiar to Bae than his own. “How did he find the knife?” Rumplestiltskin demanded of the Dark One. “You said it would be invisible there.”_

_“Desperation lends itself to miracles,” Zoso said unconcernedly. “You specified that the knife would be hidden, not that it would be invisible.”_

_“I said ‘not seen!’” Rumplestiltskin snapped. “_

_Well, it wasn’t seen—until he snapped the lock and opened the box.” Zoso grinned his battered grin, and Bae fought the urge to leap between the Dark One and his father. Rumplestiltskin would not, Bae knew, appreciate it should his son try to protect him from the Dark One he thought they needed._

_“Papa,” Bae interrupted before his father and the Dark One could get into yet another argument. He missed the time when it had been just him and his father, even if their house had been colder and barer and sadder then. At least there hadn’t been blood staining the floor; at least there hadn’t been a town full of people frightened of them outside the door._

_“It’s all right, Bae,” Rumplestiltskin assured him, and when he turned to look at Bae, the reassuring smile he wore was the familiar one from Bae’s early years. Something warmed and softened inside him at the sight of it, and he smiled back at his father. For the first time since sneaking a few words with Morraine, Bae felt confident and sure in his plan._

_“Papa, I need to talk to you,” Bae said firmly. He grabbed his father’s hand and drew him aside. It was useless to try to escape Zoso entirely, he knew from experience, but he could at least pretend that they were still capable of having a private conversation._

_“What is it, Bae?” Rumplestiltskin asked. He reached out and ran a hand through Bae’s hair, a tender gesture that would have embarrassed Bae if he hadn’t been so glad to see this glimpse of the man he knew his papa really was, on the inside, and could be again. “You’re not hurt, are you? Did someone threaten you?” And as quickly as that, tenderness was replaced by anger and coldness._

_Bae firmed his jaw and grabbed hold of his father’s hand, squeezing it tightly. He wouldn’t let go, not until his father agreed to this deal. “Papa,” he said slowly, calmly, knowing that he couldn’t show all of the terrible, strong emotions raging inside him if he wanted to keep his father’s attention, if he wanted to make sure Rumplestiltskin listened to him instead of to whatever arguments or distractions Zoso would surely offer._

_“Papa, we can’t keep doing this. We don’t_ need _the knife anymore—we don’t need the Dark One anymore. You ended the Ogre’s War, you saved all the children, and we’re safe now, we’re not hungry or in danger or anything. Everything you wanted to do, we’ve done. So it’s time, Papa…it’s time to let go of it.”_

_“Let go of it?” Rumplestiltskin repeated the words as if he’d never heard them before. He stared at Bae, and the boy had to steel himself not to writhe beneath the incredulousness of that gaze. “Bae…you don’t…_ really _…think we’re safe. Do you?”_

_Despite himself, Bae flicked a quick glance to the bloodstains by the door—reminder of when a group of the former Duke’s soldiers had broken in and tried to overpower Papa in an attempt to reclaim the knife. There were gouges in the wall over near the hearth from where Zoso had thrown yet another hopeful thief across the room. Where the butcher had lain, there were no marks, but the memory was fresh in Bae’s mind. And those were only the attempts made within the house itself; more attacks, more altercations, more ambushes had occurred throughout the village. Overnight, Rumplestiltskin (who should have been a hero, Bae fiercely believed) had become the most wanted man in the entire country, and Bae knew that made things dangerous, knew that meant they weren’t really safe, but he wanted his real papa back so badly._

_“Fine,” he said softly, giving up one dream in favor of another, more realistic one. “Then…we don’t have to give up the knife, but we…” He took a deep breath and met his father’s warm, soft gaze, remembered his papa holding him close after telling him about his mother’s death, remembered his papa handing him a bowl of food while he himself went hungry, remembered worry and fear and terrible desperation as Bae’s fourteenth birthday had approached. His father had braved the anger of Hordor and his men, had marched into a blazing castle, had faced down the Dark One himself, and all for Bae. In light of that, Bae could surely find the courage he needed to make a deal with his own papa._

_“We could leave,” he said._

_Rumplestiltskin flinched and looked away, a reaction Bae hadn’t been expecting. He hesitated briefly before pressing forward, eager to take advantage of Zoso’s unusual silence before he lost this chance. Before the Dark One stepped in with all his sibilant words and sinuous suggestions and disguised taunts._

_“Papa, everyone’s coming for us because they know we live here, because they’ve heard about the dagger, because you stole it and showed them it could be done! But we don’t have to stay here! We could leave, we could go somewhere else, somewhere no one knows about the knife! We wouldn’t have to use magic—we could be anyone we wanted to be, rich and successful and safe! You could set up another spinning business—make Zoso give you the power to weave wool into jewels, even, if you wanted to! And Zoso himself could…could…” Bae trailed off as he frowned over at the silent Dark One._

_Zoso was ever-present, it seemed, always at Rumplestiltskin’s side, whispering in his ear, cackling dark promises in the night long after Bae had sought his own bed. He never approached Bae himself, and Bae wasn’t sure whether that was because he had no use for him or because Rumplestiltskin had commanded it, but he was grateful for it either way. There was a dark, menacing air about Zoso, a shadow that followed him everywhere, looming and suffocating so that Bae felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, when he was near the Dark One._

_“He could disguise himself,” he finished with a defiant glare before he looked back to his father. “Like he did when he first came here, when we thought he was only a beggar.”_

_For a long moment that stretched out like a great, ponderous creature, Rumplestiltskin didn’t reply. His free hand had moved to the knife and now clutched the hilt in a white-knuckled grip, but Bae didn’t think he was consciously aware of the movement. Bae had never seen him look so oblique, so completely blank; usually, whatever his father was thinking was scrawled all across his features, all across his being. But now, as strange as Zoso’s silence, Rumplestiltskin gave away no hint of the thoughts whirling through his head._

_Bae wasn’t stupid, and he had always been good at noticing things. He’d been barely five when he realized that everyone in town hated his father for reasons he hadn’t been able to understand; he’d been ten when he figured out that he was all his papa had, that his papa needed him to be happy more than he needed half the bowl of soup; he’d been twelve when he understood that the Ogre’s War meant he probably wouldn’t survive to see his sixteenth birthday (when he’d begun to have nightmares about his papa fading away after Bae was taken to join the front lines); and he’d been fourteen to the day when he’d looked at his father, holding a knife and watching men die, and seen a man who’d always been helpless first taste the allure of power._

_Rumplestiltskin was still alone and he was still hated, but the difference now was that he no longer had to submit to the beatings and mockings and petty cruelties. He no longer had to be afraid of anyone taking Bae away from him._

_Bae understood that those were very powerful incentives for Rumplestiltskin to want to keep the cursed knife and to listen to Zoso’s seductive whispers. What he didn’t understand was the vengeful slant to Rumplestiltskin’s decisions, the traps he laid for the townspeople, the way he seemed to dare the villagers to hate him even more now than they had before. It was odd and puzzling and strange, so different from the kind, scared father Bae had known and loved. Sometimes, he looked at his father, standing in Zoso’s shadow, and he thought he looked on a stranger. Only rarely, only occasionally, but even once was too often._

_No, a new place was for the best. A new place would solve their problems. If Zoso was in hiding, if he had to pretend to normality, if they had to hide that they possessed magic…then everything could go back to the way it had been before, except even better because there’d be no reason for his papa to be afraid._

_“Please, Papa,” he whispered. Carefully, slowly, he reached out and uncurled Papa’s hand from the knife, held the long, calloused fingers between his own smaller hands. He knew that the fact that Rumplestiltskin let him do it proved just how much he loved him, but Bae wanted his father to do more than love him. He wanted him to trust him. “Please. We can start over. We’ll be safer that way. It’ll be better. Don’t you see? It’ll just be you and me. Just us. No soldiers, no thieves, no one hating us. We’ll get to live the life we’ve always wanted.”_

_“Bae,” Rumplestiltskin whispered. For just an instant, he looked as he had in the months leading up to Baelfire’s fourteenth birthday, frightened and helpless and oh so very desperate. His hand trembled in Bae’s, and he blinked a bit more rapidly than normal. Bae wanted to plead, to beg with his father, but he said nothing. He loved his father, but this had to be his decision. Moving away, Bae knew, wouldn’t change anything unless Rumplestiltskin himself made the decision to leave it all behind._

_“This is what you want?” Rumplestiltskin asked almost inaudibly, eyes haunted, the lines around his mouth crimping._

_Bae didn’t dare breathe. “It is.”_

_Clearing his throat, Rumplestiltskin turned to look at Zoso, though Bae was encouraged by the fact that he kept his hand in Bae’s. “Can you do it?” he demanded of the Dark One. “Can you disguise yourself for long periods of time? Speak to me the truth; hide none of it from me.”_

_Resentment burned, dark and oily, in colorless eyes. Bae wondered, sometimes, if his father ever noticed just how often Zoso’s sidelong glances to his master were filled with hate and cunning. “I can,” Zoso answered after a slight pause, as if he’d searched for a way to sidestep Rumplestiltskin’s command before speaking. Not much scared Bae, but the way Zoso_ always _paused before obeying was enough to terrify him, enough to haunt his sleep with images of a command sidestepped just enough to leave his papa bleeding and still on the ground. “_

_And riches?” Rumplestiltskin asked. “Could you supply those? Enough to make us seem wealthy tradesmen?”_

_“I can,” Zoso answered shortly. When he was compelled to truth, he always spoke with as few words as he could get away with._

_Rumplestiltskin darted a small, conspiratorial smile to Bae, and for the first time Bae let himself feel the beginnings of happiness, of relief, of hope. “And the other thing Bae mentioned—maybe not jewels, son, but what about gold? Can you give me the ability to spin straw into gold?”_

_“A simple trick of alchemy,” Zoso said dismissively, waving a contemptuous hand, as if the skill was beneath them at all. Bae felt a moment of alarm—he well knew how his father hated being derided—but for once, Rumplestiltskin didn’t seem to mind in the least. Or perhaps, like so often with the Dark One, he was oblivious to the implied sneer._

_“Then you’ll do it?” Bae asked before Zoso could say or do anything to change his father’s mind. He knew his eyes were sparkling, knew he was doing a poor job of hiding his excitement, but he didn’t care. It had been months since he’d last been free of the anxiety twisting his stomach into knots and he wanted to enjoy the feeling while it lasted._

_Rumplestiltskin smiled at him, his old smile—_ better _than his old smile because it was free of any hint of foreboding. “Yes, Bae. We’ll leave, start somewhere new.”_

_Bae’s face split into a wide grin, but he’d learned enough of disappointment since his birthday to take an extra moment and hold out his hand. “Promise?” he asked. “We leave here and start anew—you promise?”_

_“I promise.” And even though he hesitated, those two words emerged steady and sincere, and Bae didn’t care how old he was or if he should be embarrassed by doing something like this at his age—he threw himself forward into his papa’s arms and hugged him tightly. And for this moment, with the feel of a single arm holding him more tightly than any other two arms could, the smell of wool and charcoal and paper that was his father surrounding him, everything was perfect._

_But then, over Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder, Zoso caught Bae’s stare and held it with his own. There was more than the usual spite there, more than the normal calculation. Now, there was_ hate _, and rage, and darkness greater than he usually carried, and Bae knew—knew with awful certainty—that the Dark One considered Bae his enemy._

_“I love you, Bae,” Papa murmured, and Bae squeezed his eyes shut, buried his face in his father’s neck, held on with every bit of strength he could summon. “Always and forever. More than anything. Never doubt that I love you.”_

_“I love you too, Papa,” Bae whispered. He hoped, desperately and fiercely, that it was enough to save him. Enough to save them both._

\---

It’s been a bad day, but then, David considers, there have been very few _good_ days for a long time now. Being here, in the hospital, facing Dr. Whale yet again, doesn’t help anything. Especially not with news like this.

“How long?” he asks, and he does not recognize his own voice. It is hollow and dispirited. Bleak, even. He has always been an optimist, always tried so hard to see the silver lining in the storm clouds Storybrooke seems to attract. Now, however, with Whale’s proclamation still ringing in the air, he thinks that maybe he should have saved his strength for something besides making up bright sides where there aren’t any.

“I don’t like to put a number on these things,” Whale says. At David’s harsh glare, he sighs and adds, “I’d say six months to a year. We might be able to extend that, though, if we—”

“A year,” David says. He can’t believe it, can’t wrap his head around it, but at the same time, he can’t believe he ever let himself believe he could escape this fate. He’d kept hold of hope and pretended to faith when he’d first received the prognosis. He’d even managed to keep believing he had a future when he began the endless rounds of treatment. But now, with his fate spelled out in so few words, his future locked up in hospitals and growing weakness and drugs…now he has nothing left to believe in, no strength to hope. His faith has led him here and spent itself all up in the journey.

Whale places a hand on David’s shoulder for a second to gain his attention. “It’s important that you not give up,” he says, and David tries, for the millionth time in the last torturous years, to convince himself not to hate the doctor. It is hard, though, not to kill the messenger when that messenger is his own age and stands in this same room but will get to walk away from this meeting and live a full, long life. A life that will be measured in years rather than in months.

Hard not to hate him out of sheer envy.

“Right,” he says blankly when he realizes Whale is waiting for a response. Vaguely, he knows the doctor is telling him to keep up his spirits and take his medication and build up his strength for another useless round of chemo, but David doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to listen—it’s the same speech he’s been given for more years than he wants to think about (he can’t even remember a time when he didn’t see Whale every week or when the hospital wasn’t a fixed part of his routine).

All he can hear is _six months to a year_ and all he can think about are the things he’ll never be able to do, the dreams he’ll never be able to live. The woman he’ll never get to ask out. To kiss. To love (even though he’s already half in love with her and he doesn’t know how because he sure didn’t plan on it happening).

Eventually, an interminable amount of time later, he is allowed to leave Whale’s office. He does his best to ignore—to not even notice—the pitying look the doctor gives him on his way out. It is the same look he gets everywhere he goes—Granny’s, the Pet Shelter where he volunteers, the dinners at the mayor’s house. Everywhere he goes, everyone he meets, they all smile to his face and tell him not to give up, and then the minute his back is turned, they frown and shake their heads and tsk their regret for a life gone too quickly.

He hates it, hates it even more than he hates the cancer itself, but he cannot tell them how much he wishes they would stop pitying him. Even if he did tell them, if he turned and snapped at them to leave him alone and let him worry about his own life…well, he knows it would do no good at all.

It is only when he is halfway to the hospital cafeteria that he realizes he can’t do this. He can’t keep hoping, can’t keep to his same routine out of stupid, senseless faith that everything will work itself out eventually. And yet, even as he tells himself that he should turn around and leave, skip his visit to the cafeteria this time, his feet carry him forward until he is right in front of the door.

It stands there, mocking him. All he has to do is open it and go inside to their regular table. She’ll be there waiting for him, as she always is, taking a slight break from her volunteer duties. She’ll greet him with a smile, gesture to the cup of hot chocolate (with cinnamon sprinkled on top, always, an odd quirk of hers he adores) she already got for him, and tell him to sit down. They’ll talk and she’ll laugh and he’ll smile and never once will she ask how he is or will he talk about why he’s at the hospital in the first place.

He’d met her in the cafeteria years ago, back when he’d just received the news that he’d be lucky to live to see his thirtieth birthday. She’d asked if she could join him and started talking about the hot chocolate she was drinking and how she couldn’t understand why he didn’t have cinnamon in his. He’d gaped at her for a while, then daringly, clumsily flirted with her, and the minute she’d smiled at him and flirted back, he’d been lost.

It’s so easy to love her. Easy—and destructive.

He’s dying. _Six months to a year._ And she? She is perfect. She’s beautiful and brilliant with a career and schoolchildren who adore her and strength enough to smile at all the bad things in life. He has nothing to offer her, not anymore, not now that hope is gone and faith proved a failure and cancer eats him up from the inside out.

He’s been pretending, and it was a beautiful dream, but he can’t do it to her any longer. Better for her to take her break and actually read a chapter of the book she always has with her but hasn’t cracked open since they first started meeting. Better for them both if he doesn’t take this any further than he already has and break her heart right along with his.

Better. He thinks he hates that word. He won’t be getting _better_. She will be _better_ off without him. It’d be _better_ for them both to move on—her to a happy and full (and long) life, him to a quiet, wasting death and a grave on the hillside to the west of Storybrooke. _Better_ all around.

Yes, he _definitely_ hates the word.

His hand ghosts along the door for an instant, and then he turns and walks away.

It’s a cold day and the chill hits him like a sledgehammer when he exits the hospital and strides to his squad car. He welcomes it, letting it blanket him in numbness to forestall the slow comprehension of how little time he actually has remaining to him. The cold provides a sense of distance from his situation, as if the tingles of frost every time he breathes in actually armor him against his fate.

The ring of his cell-phone, however, breaks through that armor with frightening ease.

David takes a deep breath, his hand on the roof of his car as he leans over, straining to reassert control over himself. He shuts his eyes, and in the darkness is able to find the strength to reach into his pocket and pull out the phone.

“Sheriff Nolan,” he answers crisply. He learned long ago not to give away whatever he might be feeling when others are around.

“Sheriff, you’re available, I hope?” The sound of the mayor’s silky-smooth voice is enough to destroy what little cold-imbued composure he has left.

“What do you need, Madam Mayor?” He takes extra care, this time, to keep his voice calm and polite. The last thing he needs is to provoke the mayor’s ruthless displeasure on a day like today. No need, after all, to shorten what little time he has left.

“I’m afraid it’s Henry.” The mayor gives David no time for more than a sharp indrawn breath before she sighs and he can just see the exasperated expression he knows she’s wearing. “He’s gone missing and _some people_ insist on panicking.”

“Missing.” Abruptly, David is awake and alert, separated from the man who exited the hospital in a bleak daze. There is always a sharp dividing line between David the man and Sheriff Nolan. A blessing, considering his situation. “How long? Where was he last seen? Have you—”

“Please, Sheriff, perhaps over the phone isn’t the best way to discuss this. We’re heading to the diner in case Henry’s there; meet us there.”

“No, wait—” He lets out an aggravated breath when his only reply is a dial tone. “So much for searching different places,” he mutters to himself as he slides into his car. He reaches for the mike out of habit but changes the movement to sliding the key into the ignition. It’s been…well, he can’t even remember how long…since he had a deputy, but it still comes as a surprise to him every time he gets in his car to head out on patrol to realize again that he is Storybrooke’s sole police officer.

It is only a five minute drive to the diner and there is no need for him to employ the lights and siren he doesn’t remember ever using. When he pulls up and parks in the no-parking zone, he isn’t surprised to see that he has beaten the mayor here. Had she been truly worried about Henry, nothing—not even flood or fire or earthquake—would have prevented her from being here, but it is a well-known secret in town that the mayor thinks little of the young boy who so obviously fears her. David guesses that it will be another five or ten minutes before the mayor bothers to show up at all, despite the fact that the city hall is only three minutes away and her house only another three minutes past that.

Unlike the mayor, however, David actually _is_ worried about Henry. It isn’t like the young boy to worry his mother, not when he knows how fragile she is. He’s so worried, in fact, that he has almost reached the diner’s doors before he notices an unfamiliar car parked across the street from the bed and breakfast.

An _unfamiliar_ car. A car he hasn’t seen before. A car he doesn’t know who belongs to.

He stops stock-still and stares, sparing a moment to wonder if the bad news he received ( _six months to a year_ , and that’s like saying no time at all) has unbalanced him so far that he’s now seeing things.

“Leroy!” He grabs hold of the stocky man’s arm when the town janitor exits the diner and moves to pass by him. “Whose car is that, do you know?”

“Probably the strangers’,” Leroy answers shortly with a sneer, tugging his arm free of the sheriff’s grip. There is the barest wisp of alcohol on his breath, not quite enough to worry about public drunkenness. Thankfully, Leroy seemed to learn his lesson about the foolishness of overdrinking after the mayor had caught him scrawling graffiti along the side of the city hall. It had taken David—and the DA—almost two weeks and a considerable number of painful headaches to convince the mayor not to charge the hapless janitor with terrorism.

“Strangers,” David repeats. Even the word tastes strange on his tongue, foreign and as exotic as names of far-off countries from fantasy books. It might as well be, considering how many strangers come to town. As he takes a step forward, he sees a motorcycle parked behind the strange car, out of place on Storybrooke’s quiet streets.

“They’re in there.” Leroy jerks a thumb back toward the diner. “Man and a woman. It’s why I’m leaving—awful lot of fuss for two people, if you ask me. No chance for a nice, quiet drink now.”

David is still staring, this time toward the diner, peering in past blinds covering glass windows, and so he does not notice Leroy walking away until it is too late to ask him anymore. Not that it matters. He has barely had time to process the fact that new people—people he has never seen or met or heard tell of—have arrived before they are exiting the diner, the sounds of cutlery and conversation following them into the street until the door closes behind them and shuts them once more into cold silence.

A slender, blonde woman and a tall, dark-haired man, both relatively young and seeming opposites—the man smiling and murmuring something apparently witty judging by the way the woman rolls her eyes, frowning and shaking her head.

“Hey,” David greets them, not quite sure how to handle the situation and too excited over their presence to care. He steps forward and holds out his hand to shake first the woman’s and then the man’s. “I’m David Nolan, the sheriff. I’m sorry if I seem surprised—it’s just that we don’t get many visitors in town.”

“Never would have guessed,” the woman says acerbically, her handshake almost hostile though her glare is directed to her companion rather than David. There is something…almost familiar, something that _clicks_ within David’s mind when she speaks, when her eyes lock onto his, when her hand is in his. Something that doesn’t make sense but nonetheless takes him aback, stills him and sends _something_ tingling through him until he shakes his head and forces himself to ignore the strangeness. He should be used to his body’s way of exerting its rebellions, but it seems there is something new and equally distressing every passing day.

“Ignore her cynicism,” the man says, his own handshake firm and friendly, as is his smile. A well-practiced smile that almost manages to hide the strange look he gives David. “She’s a city girl. I’m August W. Booth and she’s _Emma_.” The man pauses after saying the name with an odd sort of emphasis, his gaze intent on David. “ _Emma_ Swan.”

“Glad to meet you,” David says, shrugging aside the oddity. “You two planning on staying long? Have family in town?” He’s never heard of anyone’s family coming to visit, not since he became sheriff anyway, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, he’d feel a lot better about strangers appearing in town the same night Henry goes missing if he knew they had relatives who could vouch for them.

“Well,” August begins, but Emma scoffs and shakes her head.

“No. No family in town. Or friends or acquaintances. We’re just here for a weekend or so and then we’re out of here. Right, August? That was our deal, after all.” She glares at August, all narrowed eyes and veiled threat that seems to slide off the man’s back like rain off sheep’s wool.

“ _Part_ of our deal,” he agrees complacently.

David frowns and looks between them. “So…when did you two arrive?”

“About an hour ago,” August answers easily, though his companion seems to suddenly recall David’s presence, and now she stares at David suspiciously, perhaps realizing that his questions aren’t just idle curiosity.

“Why? Trouble around here?” she asks.

After a slight hesitation, David answers, “A boy—ten years old, dark hair, light eyes—has gone missing. He might have just wandered off, but it’s out of character and we’re a bit—”

“Sheriff, who might these people be?”

Inwardly cursing, David hides his startled flinch and turns with a pasted-on smile to see the mayor sweeping up. She is as impeccably dressed as ever, sleek and smooth with her immovable smile curving her lips up in a distinctly _non_ -warming way. In her wake, two steps back as always, trails her ever-present shadow, head ducked down, hands twisted together, shoulders hunched.

“Madam Mayor,” David greets with practiced casualness. “Have you heard any word from Henry yet?”

“Not yet,” the mayor answers at the same moment as August asks, “Henry?” with a degree of sharpness that immediately makes everyone—save the mayor’s meek shadow—look at him.

“Henry Mills,” the mayor says, her smile not slipping an iota. She steps forward and holds out her own hand with all the grace and poise she always shows (the grace that David can’t help but compare to a lioness, the poise to a snake so confident of its own strength that nothing can unsettle it). “You haven’t happened to see a young boy recently, have you?”

“Can’t say that we have,” Emma replies, and at the sound of her voice, another trickle of… _something_ …winds its way deep inside David.

“Sheriff?”

David startles when he realizes the mayor is looking at him, politely waiting. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat, fights for composure and focus. “Madam Mayor, this is August Booth and Emma Swan, here to visit for a few days. Mr. Booth, Ms. Swan, this is Mayor Mills.”

“Such a pleasure to meet you. We so rarely receive visitors,” the mayor begins, but David isn’t done yet. The mayor might like to pretend her daughter doesn’t exist, but David himself will not let them all ignore her presence.

“And this,” he says, a bit louder, gesturing to the mayor’s meek shadow, “is Regina Mills, her daughter and Henry’s mother.”

Regina jumps a little bit at all the attention on her and shrinks inward, but she manages a small, pretty smile when she darts a glance up through her lashes. She murmurs something that might be a greeting, and David has to clench his jaw and look away. It’s the same every time he sees Regina. He cannot forget the marks he’s seen on her, the whispers his cafeteria companion has let slip about her friend, the way the grown woman flinches every time her mother moves toward her. But there is nothing he can do, not after the last time he tried and the disaster that followed.

“Mayor,” Emma says when August remains silent. It is not quite a greeting, not quite an acknowledgement, and not quite a question, but also somehow a little bit of each, which makes David crack a smile despite the situation.

“Please,” the mayor smiles,” call me Cora. So, what brings you to our fair town? I hadn’t thought we were even on most maps.”

“Just sightseeing,” August says quickly, standing straighter and sticking his hands in his pockets. He smiles casually, easily, politely, and it makes David frown because he uses the same smile himself when he doesn’t want anyone to know just how off-balance he is. “Wanted to find somewhere secluded and quiet for a couple days, get away from it all.”

“Yes, well, I’d say you’ve found the perfect place.” Cora’s eyes slide to Emma, who is staring at Regina. “You don’t know anyone in town yet, then?”

“Please,” Emma scoffs. David sidles a bit closer to Regina when she trembles after Emma looks away from her. He knows the mayor’s daughter isn’t used to attention and that she is most comfortable when she is with Henry. Her son is all she has in this world (he certainly doesn’t count her mother, and he doesn’t think she does either), and he can’t imagine how panicked she must be at Henry’s absence. “So far we’ve met everyone in the diner and the sheriff and you and, oh, the creepy older—”

“She means to say,” August cut in smoothly, ignoring Emma’s raised eyebrow, “that we’ve been made to feel very welcome by quite a few people in town. We’ll never remember everyone’s names, of course, but at least trying will keep us busy.”

David shifts so that his shoulder provides a barrier between Regina and the conversation between her mother and the strangers. “Hey, how you holding up?” he asks her quietly. It is rare that one can find a chance to speak with Regina without her mother there to run interference, and he doesn’t want to ruin this opportunity.

“Oh, fine.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back, gratified by this sign that she feels at least somewhat easy in his presence.

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “That’s good. So, mind if I ask when was the last time you saw Henry?”

She hesitates, curling inward, before actually meeting his eyes and answering, “This afternoon. He came home from school and then went to do his homework. We…” She darts a glance over his shoulder to her mother, then looks back at David. “We wanted… _I_ wanted to help him. He’s been asking about his adoption, you know, and he…well, he’ll be all right. Won’t he?”

“I’m sure he will,” he says soothingly. He almost believes his own words until he remembers that he’s decided not to trust in useless things anymore, not to lie to himself about the possibility of good things happening. Only…only, this is Henry, and he’s a smart kid, careful and considerate and incredibly compassionate. It’s almost impossible for anyone to get lost in Storybrooke itself (but the woods, oh, the woods are a different matter entirely), and surely Henry will show up (because he has no reason to go wandering around in the forest, no reason at all).

He is saved from having to decide how much he should say when he sees Dr. Hopper coming toward them, Pongo at his side. The psychiatrist always walks his Dalmatian in the evenings about this time, but there is too much distress and worry on his kind features for a regular evening walk.

“I called him,” Regina says hastily, her voice still in a hushed whisper. “He’s the best friend Henry has.”

David refuses to let himself fall once again into the sadness brought on by thinking of how tragic it is that a ten year old boy’s best friend is his therapist and instead waves Archie over. “Dr. Hopper, good evening.”

“Have you found him?” Archie blurts out. An instant later, he is reaching out a tentative hand to pat Regina’s arm consolingly. “Don’t worry, Regina. He’ll turn up. Everything will be fine.”

“Of course it will.”

At Cora’s razor-sharp statement, Regina stiffens, Archie’s face closes, and David slowly turns to face the woman he’d been trying to temporarily ignore. Emma and August watch the townspeople with oblique expressions; her arms are crossed over her chest, his hands are stuffed in his pockets, and neither of them could make it any more clear that they don’t want to get involved.

“Henry will be fine,” Cora repeats, smile still in place, and somehow she manages to sound just as condescending as she does reassuring. “You know how boys are—they like to run off and get into trouble. He’ll come back when he gets hungry or too tired to play anymore.”

“Really?” Emma raises an eyebrow, unimpressed when the mayor turns her incisive gaze on her. “The sheriff said it was out of character for the boy, though. How long has he been missing?”

“About four hours?” David answers when Regina remains silent, casting her a quick look to see if she’ll verify his guess. She doesn’t, once more staring down at her clasped hands.

“Excuse me.” Cora tilts her head and studies Emma intently enough that David is glad it isn’t him she’s staring at so speculatively. He already has enough chills running though him; no need to add more. “Are you an investigator? A sheriff yourself, perhaps?”

Emma doesn’t back away, which makes David revisit his assessment of her. “It’s my job to find people. Most people have a hideaway, a place where they feel most comfortable, that they retreat to when they feel like they need to get away. Has anything happened lately to make the boy upset?”

“It’s very kind of you to offer your help,” Cora says quietly, “but I hardly think we need any aid to find one recalcitrant boy.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” David breaks in, deciding it is far past time he takes charge. The last thing he needs is for Cora to decide she wants to start a rivalry with two strangers who’ll only be in town a few days. His life is difficult enough already without adding more trouble. “Dr. Hopper, you know where Henry likes to go when he wants to be alone, don’t you? Why don’t you and Madam Mayor go check out those places?” He manages a short apologetic look to the doctor when the mayor’s attention is on Emma and hopes Archie will forgive him for sending him off alone with Cora. “Regina, you and I will check any other places you think he might have gone, all right? Ms. Swan, Mr. Booth, I appreciate your offer of assistance, and believe me, if we don’t find Henry shortly, I’ll take you up on it. For now, though, I think it’s important that we start looking—true dark will be here in less than an hour.”

It takes a bit more cajoling and some intentional deafness, but David manages to shepherd them all to their respective tasks. He counts it a major victory when Regina actually gets into the front seat of his squad car, but just as he’s about to join her, Emma stops him with a hand on his arm.

“I think she knows more than she’s telling,” she says quietly, pointing with her chin to Regina. “She’s not nearly as worried as I’d think she’d be about her son missing. Her mother seems a bit…”

“Domineering,” David supplies when Emma pauses to search for the correct word. (It isn’t nearly a strong enough word, but it’ll have to do for now.)

Emma grimaces. “Yeah. It doesn’t seem to me that there’s any love lost between grandmother and grandson and the mom may just be trying to protect the kid.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” David says. He could inform her that that’s the reason he’s maneuvered himself into some alone time with Regina—well, one of the reasons—but instead he lets himself feel a bit impressed by how well this stranger reads the signs of people she doesn’t know. “Thanks,” he says, and with a last nod to her and her companion, he ducks into his car and takes off down the street.

He really doesn’t have a destination in mind, not yet, but that’s all right. Right now, all he’s trying to do is get Regina far enough away from her mother that she’ll talk to him. This is the first time he’s been alone with her since his last, ill-fated attempt to get her to turn Cora in for abuse. The first time he’s spoken with her privately since he’d asked her to meet him for lunch and offered her his protection. He can only hope this occasion will have a much happier, and less painful, ending.

“So…you and Henry spoke about his birth parents,” he begins tentatively.

Regina doesn’t look at him, just keeps looking out the window at the darkened streets they pass. David heads them in the direction of the harbor simply because it is the farthest distance away from them and he needs time to prolong this conversation. She could ask him where they’re going, but she doesn’t; she remains silent, and he hopes that means she knows where Henry really is.

“He needed to know,” she finally admits after they’ve gone about ten blocks. She raises a slender hand and draws a single finger down the mist that’s obscured the window just in front of her mouth. David can see her reflection in the mirror, shadows against the night outside, eyes glinting with refracted light. “He’s been asking about it, so I thought…I thought if I told him the truth, it would make him feel better.”

“But he was upset?”

“Yes.” It’s nothing more than a whisper that expels more breath to cover the tracks she’d made in the fog on the window. She drops her hand to her lap and leans her brow against the mist. “Mother came in just after he ran out the door, and I…I couldn’t think of a lie fast enough, so…I just said that I didn’t know where he was, and…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make everyone worry.”

“It’s all right,” he assures her. “Just…if you know where he is, tell me, okay? It’s getting dark and, upset or not, he probably shouldn’t be all by himself. He’ll want to see you.”

“No,” she says, and it’s so surprising to hear her blatantly contradict someone, _anyone_ , that he can’t help but give her a sharp sideways glance. There is a forlorn somberness in his voice that alarms him, a sadness in her reflected eyes that reminds him she has only Henry. Without him…without him, he’s not too sure she’d be able to continue getting up in the mornings. “I don’t think he will. He…he was _so_ upset.”

“He’ll want to see you, Regina,” David promises her softly, not even caring that this is another bright side he’s insisting on seeing. “You’re his mother, and maybe he needed some time to adjust to whatever news you had for him, but he’ll remember that eventually.”

Regina half-shakes her head, but she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think she can, not without breaking down into sobs and that’s not something Regina ever lets herself do.

David gives her a minute, then asks, “ _Do_ you know where he is?”

“His castle,” she whispers, and David pretends not to hear the sniffle she makes after the admission. “He’s at his castle.”

Sure enough, when David pulls his car up in front of the battered and worn play castle near the beach, when he gets out and (very slowly) follows Regina up the path to the park, he sees a tiny form sitting slumped and still near one of the sagging turrets.

“Go,” David prods Regina when her steps come to a halt. She gives him one pleading look, as if he can make sure that she hasn’t lost her son, and then she continues forward. David takes a few steps after her, but stays well back.

“Henry,” Regina calls.

The boy looks up, catches sight of her, and then, in the light of the squad car’s headlights, David sees his small features crumple as he begins to cry. Regina hurries forward and swoops the boy up into her arms. Henry throws his own arms around her neck and clings to her and David hears him say “Mom.” Tension bleeds out of David’s muscles for the first time since Whale had given him the news ( _six months to a year_ , a time stamp to add to his death sentence), because at least one bright side still exists.

David stands there in the cold night air and gives Regina and her son time to reconnect and he lets himself feel his relief. He might not have been able to save Regina from her mother, and he may not be able to save himself, but at least this one thing he can do.

It’s not much, but it’s something, and David has long since learned to take what he can get.

\---


	3. Selfless, Brave, And Almost True

\---

_Emma didn’t mean to run away, not really. It just sort of happened. One minute she was on the phone for her weekly chat with August, assuring him this new home wasn’t too bad, she could survive it till her eighteenth birthday. The next minute, she was in a shouting match with her foster mother (over her homework, of all things, and it was just ridiculous and too much because Emma was old enough and had been on her own enough that she sure didn’t need a virtual stranger telling her how to do something she’d been doing all her life), and Emma finally cracked._

_She was tired of being moved from one place to another. Tired of never being wanted, never being good enough. Tired of waiting around for an eighteenth birthday and the promise of a man who could have been her rightful brother by now if only the system didn’t always mess everything up so badly. She was tired, above all, of waiting around for a system, or a certain age, or the boy who’d defied all the odds by continuing to keep in contact with her no matter how many times they were both moved—tired of waiting for them to save her._

_It was time to save herself._

_So she did. She waited until early evening, packed a bag of the silly, unique trinkets August had sent her (the wooden castles and fairytale figurines he’d made and mailed her every birthday), dropped it out the window into the bushes, then went out the front door empty-handed saying she’d be back by midnight. She dug her bag out of the bushes, walked to the nearest bus stop, and got on the first one heading out of state._

_She meant to go straight to August, really she did. That was her plan, such as it was, to move the reunion up a year and a couple of weeks. Of course he’d take her in—he’d been talking about it ever since she could remember, hadn’t he? From that first phone call when she was four (just after the family that should have been hers had packed her off to make room for their own flesh and blood), taking the phone in small, clumsy hands to hear some boy telling her his name was August, he was her guardian angel, and was she happy, how old was she, he’d make sure everything turned out all right. He’d promised her then that he’d get her out, get her moved in with him; he’d found her once, he could do it again, he claimed._

_Only, he never had been able to. He’d been an eleven year old boy in troubles of his own, and no matter how many promises he made, there was no way he could finagle more than the occasional phone call and birthday gift. Even after he’d turned eighteen, after he’d called with the news that he had a job and an apartment of his own, his promises had remained as ephemeral, as abstract, as he himself._

_He’d moved from place to place, always another souvenir in the mailbox and adventurous story over the phone, but never a promise fulfilled. He was a twenty-four year old single male and she was a teenage girl, and that was that. No visits, no rescue, no hope._

_Except now Emma would make her own. August had tried to go through the system, and that was the problem. Emma didn’t have any love for the proper order of things, and now that she was free and on her own, they’d be much better off._

_She was already halfway to Seattle when she realized that August would be the first person the police would go to. Her current set of temporary ‘parents’ had been remarkably accommodating with the phone calls after August had managed to talk her out of one of her wilder teenage friends. She’d even told this set of fosters, once, that she planned on meeting August in person as soon as she was independent and out on her own. They’d know, they’d guess, that she was heading straight for him. In fact, chances were that the police were already with him, waiting for her to walk straight into their trap._

_The last thing she wanted was to get August in trouble—one thing to mess up her own life, quite another to mess up someone else’s. Besides, flawed though he might be, he was the only one who’d ever bothered to care about her. He might like to exaggerate his stories, but he was still her guardian angel. It was about time she protected him._

_But where would she go instead?_

_She made it to Portland and then…and then she forgot about plans and destinations and August. Because she met Neal._

_Neal was everything she’d begun to think didn’t exist in real life. He was happy and carefree and lived a life unbound by rules. He was real and there and he smiled every time he saw her and his voice trembled with nervousness and hope when he suggested they keep the car and combine their talents and make a bit more by pretending to be married. He laughed when she said something funny and he said her name so tenderly when she told him about some of the homes she’d been in and when he kissed her, he held her as if she were precious and fragile and infinitely special._

_Neal became her world almost overnight. They protected each other, took care of each other, and she didn’t need a guardian angel, not when she could be one herself. The opportunity to save_ him _, to be the hero instead of_ waiting _for one, was so invigorating, so intoxicating, that when it came, she grasped hold of it with both hands and refused to let go._

_“I love you,” she told him, and when he said it back to her, sincere and unabashed and happy, she knew they could conquer the world._

_Unfortunately, the world didn’t get the memo._

_When Neal didn’t show up with the money for the watches, Emma knew something was wrong. It had to be. “We may be thieves, but our word’s got to mean something,” he’d told her more than once, and his word was gold. So if he was late, it meant something bad had to have happened._

_She waited for hours. She checked the new, shiny watch he’d given her (once a thing of triumph and beauty, now a heavy shackle) countless times. She called his phone, trying not to be terrified when it continued to go to the voicemail she knew he never checked. She paced and worried and marveled at how quickly fairytales could fade away into harsh reality._

_Finally, at dawn, she gave up and left. The car seemed empty and sterile without him there, but it still smelled like him and at the first breath of his scent she finally gave in and let herself sob._

_She stayed in the car the whole day, watching the place he’d promised to meet her, afraid to look away lest she miss him. Tallahassee had become her dream (because it was his dream; because it was_ theirs _), but she didn’t care about it anymore. All she wanted was Neal back._

_But he didn’t come, and when she stopped crying and calmed her rapid heartbeat, she decided to go look for him._

_She wanted to find Neal, but instead all she found was blood. The strap of the bag he’d kept the watches in was caught in a chain-link fence, there were dents in a nearby parked car, and blood stained the asphalt._

_Terror consumed her, made her reckless, and for a while, she thought that was why she was caught. Only later, much later (staring down at a white stick containing a nightmare that made her traitorous, untrained heart leap for joy), did she remember the cops telling her there’d been an anonymous tip, the way they’d immediately asked to see the watch she’d still worn, the soberness of his tone when one officer had told her she should have picked her friends more carefully._

_Emma had wanted to rescue herself, had wanted to be someone’s hero. Instead, she’d become a scapegoat and found herself in a literal prison that was much harder to break out of than a foster home. And it was only then, afraid and alone and facing a decision that affected a life so very tiny and fragile and dependent on her, that she thought of August and the acceptance he’d always offered her. She wanted to call him, wanted to ask him to save her, wanted him to tell her what to do about the fate waiting for her in nine months. But she was done believing in fairytales, and guardian angels were just as fictional as prince charmings and evil queens and true love’s kiss._

_So she didn’t call him. And she didn’t cry when she got a bundle of money and a familiar key-chain in the mail instead of a carved castle. And she most certainly did not long to see Neal Cassidy ever again. That would make her weak and she refused to be weak ever again._

_Emma didn’t plan on losing her idealism. It just happened._

\---

Granny’s Diner is busy, crowded almost to overflowing with people coming to see the newcomers. August watches them drift in and out, notices that despite his inconspicuous spot leaning up against the outside of the diner, they all recognize him immediately as a stranger. It seems odd, almost suspicious, that they can so quickly and effortlessly know him as an outsider; the town isn’t _that_ small.

He thinks it is just more proof that he has, finally, found the right place.

Emma hasn’t emerged from her room yet, either still sleeping after their long trip the day before or refusing to come out of hiding to explore Storybrooke. August can’t entirely blame her. For the last three of her birthdays, he’s dragged her to different small towns, each with their own stories of strange happenings and inexplicable occurrences, each time secretly hoping that he’d finally find his father. But Emma knows nothing of his ulterior motives—even the thought of telling her that he wants her to break a curse on a town full of fairytale characters makes him shudder and shake his head—and she has long since grown tired of his constant traveling, exasperated with his habit of giving her trips to obscure towns as birthday gifts, outgrown his penchant for telling tales and looking for strange things (ostensibly to inspire his writing).

No, Emma is a creature grown in this world, rooted in what she knows of reality, and she little likes surprises. Somehow, no matter that he has managed to find the correct place on her twenty-eighth birthday (just as Rumplestiltskin long ago prophesied he would), August knows that he has failed. It will be hard to convince her to break a curse when she does not believe in curses or magic or prophecies. She doesn’t even believe in _listening_ to fairytales, let alone meeting them face to face.

“So, are you going to stand out here all day, or are you going to come in?”

At the blunt question, August turns from his perusal of the passing townspeople, smile already rising to his lips. It’s harder for people to doubt you when you smile at them, he knows, and he has long since learned that a disarming smile is sometimes all the weapon he needs.

The waitress from inside stands in the doorway, hand on her hip as she assesses him. Her long dark hair spills over her shoulders, flashing with red when she tilts her head, secrets hidden beneath darkness. It fits her, strangely, in a way he never would have guessed. But then, children of the moon are often set apart from others, and he supposes that doesn’t change no matter what world they currently inhabit.

“I suppose I _could_ come in,” he answers her question with more nonchalance than he feels. “I just don’t want to find myself mobbed. Not unless the mob is made up of fans.”

“Fans?” She arches an eyebrow, her knee bent to hold the door open in front of her. “Fans of what?”

He laughs and moves to hold open the door with a gloved hand. “My writing, ideally. I’m a writer, you know, just not a well-known one.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widen and a bit of wanderlust peeks through from behind the curse’s shroud. For an instant, short and breathtaking, she is recognizable as Red, the fierce warrior who helped Prince James and Snow White oust the Wicked Queen and take back their kingdom. The girl with a shy smile whose eyes glowed golden, whose crimson hood kept her from turning into a wolf capable of taking out whole armies. For an instant, she is Geppetto’s bedtime stories turned into living, breathing reality before him, and August is speechless, breathless, motionless.

But then she laughs self-deprecatingly and shrugs, and the red shows in her hair, and the wolf-warrior disappears to be replaced by the small town waitress. “I’ve never met a writer before. But, come on, even writers have to eat, right?”

“Right,” he says slowly, looking away to preserve for a moment longer the image of the woman he’d watched from under a round table surrounded by sober, worried adults.

She leads him to a booth near the back of the room, watches him as he sits with his back to the front of the diner (easier to ignore the stares this way; easier to block out the faces he almost but not quite recognizes). Then she smiles and hands him a menu. “Just call me when you’re ready to order.”

“Call you?” he asks, a bit more composed now that he’s had a minute to remind himself that he is August W. Booth, traveling writer, not Pinocchio, wooden child. “Easier to do if I knew your name.”

She laughs flirtatiously, ducks her head, and he is almost ashamed to see her this way, so vulnerable and oblivious and different. He feels, suddenly, like a voyeur, watching someone who is completely unaware of him, completely unaware of what she (what everyone in this town) is showing him. But this is only his first day here, and he knows it will be many, _many_ more days before Emma will be ready to break the curse, and so he must grow used to this. He cannot walk around blindfolded, cannot hide away in his room; like so much else in this world he was sent to so many years before, he must simply learn to face and accept it.

“Ruby,” she answers, giving him a name not hers and yet similar enough that it is easy to remember.

“Ruby,” he repeats, and then he laughs and gives her the menu. “Just surprise me with your favorite breakfast, okay?”

“Sounds good,” she replies. She leaves, and he is both disappointed and relieved, a contradictory reaction in keeping with all of his feelings since arriving in what seemed to be an ordinary town and finding Rumplestiltskin cloaked in the form of an ordinary human. At least the limp is still the same; without that, August might have had trouble recognizing the powerful Spinner in the quiet man that had stood so casually and so still before him.

He’s sipping the cup of coffee Ruby brought him when the woman he’s been waiting for finally sits down across from him. She is nervous and edgy, darting glances at the other customers from beneath dark lashes, her hands twisting over and over again in her lap. August is surprised, when he looks at her, to see just exactly _how_ nervous she is; in the old world, when anyone could manage to catch a glimpse of her, she was self-possessed, quiet but somewhat sure of herself, kind and generous as much as her mother allowed her to be. Here, cursed and vulnerable, she is different, exposed and weak. Another reminder, should he need any, that these people he recognizes are nonetheless strangers, diluted and refracted through weak reflections.

“Good morning,” he greets her softly, makes sure that he puts his cup down gently enough that it hardly clinks at all. The smile he offers this woman is smaller and more aloof than the one he gave Ruby (he has a hundred smiles for a hundred different situations). “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”

“My mother dropped by to talk to me,” Regina says. She makes an effort to sit up straighter, but it does nothing but make her look more afraid. “I couldn’t get away.”

“I can order you breakfast, if you like,” he begins to offer, just to make her feel more comfortable. As he expected, she shakes her head and leans forward to lower her voice to a whisper.

“I can’t stay. I just…does she know?” Eyes so dark they are almost black swim with equal parts determination and terror. Not fear of her mother, this time, or of being noticed taking an extreme interest in August (though he suspects that no one will think it strange she is talking to a stranger, not when so many others have found excuse to do the same), but fear of losing her son.

“I haven’t told her yet,” August admits, because Emma may be younger than him and she may even look up to him, in a weird, exasperated sort of way, but she is also the savior. Plus, she is a bit scary in her cynical intensity. He’s found that he much prefers giving her bad news from a distance, over the phone from the next state over or in a letter sent halfway across the country. Not sitting across from her at a table or in the hallway when his room is just next door to hers.

“So…” Regina frowns, studying him. There is suddenly a great deal more calculation in those large eyes. “She doesn’t know why you’re here? She doesn’t know that Henry—”

“Not yet,” August interrupts. He reaches for another, friendlier smile and pastes it on just in time for Ruby to reach his table with a plate of pancakes, bacon, and strawberries. “Thanks,” he tells her.

“Hope you like it,” Ruby offers, placing the syrup on the table and looking to Regina, already reaching for her notepad.

The mayor’s daughter manages a polite smile but doesn’t quite meet the waitress’s eyes. “Nothing for me, thanks.” Ruby nods and leaves to see to her other tables, and Regina lets out a quiet sigh.

“Look…” August picks up the syrup and pours it over his pancakes liberally, not really paying attention to the casual movement. “We’re here, and we’re going to be staying for a while. That’ll give us time to ease her into the knowledge that she has a son and that—”

“He’s _my_ son,” Regina interrupts, fierce and straight, defiant and bold—and just as the wolf-warrior had showed through the waitress, now the princess, the heir-apparent, blazes through this meek and beaten shadow. “I only contacted you on the condition that she realize she can’t take him away from me.”

“Trust me,” August says smoothly, “Emma isn’t going to try to take him away from you. We’ll be lucky if she even talks to us after she finds out why I dragged her out here.” He dares to reach out and place a gentle hand over Regina’s, just for an instant, just long enough to drive away that terror from dark eyes. “Henry’s yours, Regina. Of course he is. But you said you wanted Emma to come, wanted—”

“I know.” She sighs and gives a slight shake of her head. “I know. I just…okay. So, when do you plan on telling her?”

August takes a deep breath. “Interesting question. I don’t think we should do it…right away.” He grimaces and takes a sip of cooling coffee to try to hide it. “Let’s wait a few days and see how things go. Right now, she’s still a little irritated that I dragged her to some small town with no explanation.”

Regina narrows her eyes as she studies him, making him feel uncomfortable and exposed, as if it is he whose true nature has just been revealed. “But soon, right? I don’t want this to drag out any longer than it has to. Henry was upset enough finding out about it—I don’t want to think how hard it will be for him if this isn’t resolved quickly.”

“Soon,” August promises, ignores the tight clenching in the pit of his stomach. Fear has been his constant companion for so long that he knows how to function past it, to ignore it and pretend that he is as confident as Rumplestiltskin once sought to make him.

“All right.” Regina lets out a deep breath, pauses, then nods sharply and stands. “Should I bring Henry here after school?”

“That’s a bit sooner than I was anticipating,” August observes, eyebrows rising.

“Still, though. If you bring Ms. Swan here this afternoon when Henry will be here, they can at least see each other.” She swallows and adds, “Get to know each other before she finds out who she is to him.”

“Good idea.” August nods and pulls out yet another smile, this one cautiously hopeful. “Three-thirty all right?”

Her hands clench into fists, but she says only, “Yes.” She pauses, as if she will say something else, but she only shakes her head again and then turns and strides quickly out of the diner. Hardly anyone takes notice of her exit, which August finds strange—she’s the mayor’s daughter, after all, and surely cause for talk due to that fact alone. But Cora always liked to keep her daughter close in the old world; perhaps she does the same here in more ways than one.

“Making friends?”

August tries not to flinch as Emma slides into the seat Regina just vacated. He doesn’t dare try to pull out a smile, not on Emma (she’s seen them all before, or almost all), but he does give her his flat stare so she won’t think he’s startled and nervous. “Finally decided to get up, did you?”

“I’ve been up for a while, and don’t change the subject.” Emma swipes a piece of bacon off his plate and uses it to point at him before taking a bite out of it. “She’s pretty, if a bit jumpy. But you do realize that kid that was missing last night is hers, don’t you? Means she’s probably married.”

Despite the situation, August can’t help but choke on his own bite of syrupy pancake. “Uh, she’s not married, aaaand _no_. Just no. She’s not my type at all. Not to mention she’s the mayor’s daughter, in case you’ve forgotten. Besides, like you said, she’s a bit haunted and I don’t think she needs anything else messing up whatever kind of balance she’s found for her life here.”

Emma regards him for a long moment, chewing slowly.

“What?” he asks when he can stand the scrutiny no longer. Every time she looks at him like this, he can almost swear he feels himself turning back to wood for all the lies and misdirections and evasions he’s given her.

“Nothing,” Emma says, but he doesn’t believe her for a second. Nothing is ever just _nothin_ g to her. “It’s just…you seem to have thought about it a lot for just having met her over breakfast. Seems like you know her.”

“I met her last night,” August points out, able now to chance a slight smile. He nabs the last piece of bacon before Emma can steal it. “And—I can already tell what you’re thinking—but no. She is not the reason we came here. I’ve never met her before today. Clear enough for you?” He smirks when Emma grimaces and shoves herself back in her seat.

“Then why _are_ we here, August?” she demands, not for the first, tenth, or even hundredth time. “This is a backward town the mapmakers don’t even remember exists, and as charming as some of the people here may be, there’s no reason for _us_ to be here.” He knows she is unaware of what she is saying, but he still can’t help but do a bit of a double-take at her use of the word ‘charming.’ It’s frightening, how often he hears things that remind him he cannot simply live an ordinary life but must always work to save their old world.

“You promised,” he says, and luckily, they have repeated this argument so many times that he is able to keep up his end of it without much conscious thought. “I helped you with your problem, and you come with me to a destination of my choice for your birthday. Well, the destination is Storybrooke, and I have at least a week before you can start convincing me to leave.”

“A week?” She arches her eyebrows and smirks at him, smug and sure of herself. He almost feels sorry for her. “It won’t take much to convince you to leave by then—for a writer, you’re oddly social, and I doubt Storybrooke’s nightlife is going to be exciting enough for you.”

“I think you might be surprised,” he says dryly as he stands and throws a bill down on the table for Ruby. Emma snatches the last gulp of coffee from his cup and rises to follow him, giving him a look when he pauses to wave and smile at Ruby. He ignores her (easier than ignoring the glimpses of familiarity in the mannerisms and glances of the people around him) and holds the door open for her with a slight, mocking bow.

“Oh, good morning.”

Emma rolls her eyes but manages a polite smile at the man and woman standing just outside the diner. August considers holding the door open for them but decides against it when the man, slight and dark-haired with a cheerful smile, holds out his hand and introduces himself.

“Robert Flayme,” he says, his smile as polite for Emma as it is for August, curiosity as apparent on his narrow features as it is on everyone else’s they’ve met. “And this,” he turns to let his ebony-haired, almond-eyed companion step forward, “is Magnolia Orchid, my personal assistant and friend.”

Magnolia shakes August’s hand but does not smile, and August reads her standoffishness enough to know better than to offer anything more than a courteous nod of his head. She is nearly the same height as Robert, but her skeptical watchfulness stands in stark contrast to Robert’s cheerful friendliness.

“Great to meet you,” Emma says, looking straight at Magnolia, probably identifying immediately with the more aloof attitude. August meanwhile much prefers Robert’s affability—much easier to remain in this cursed town when some of the people at least look as if they are happy.

“I’d heard there were newcomers in town,” Robert tells them, his voice slightly accented, “but I admit that I thought it to be more the product of rumor than reality. I’m glad to be wrong.”

“Seems to be a common reaction around here,” Emma mutters, sticking her hands in her back pockets.

Robert hesitates, as if not sure how to address that, but Magnolia interrupts him, her dark eyes zeroing in on August with uncanny intentness. “We heard you were a writer, actually, and that you were looking for mysteries. Investigating them.”

“Well, that one is a rumor,” August admits, “at least the part about investigating mysteries. But I am a writer, and inspiration can come from anywhere. Why? Do you have a mystery to solve?”

“We do,” Robert answers. He is suddenly serious, his cheerfulness submerged beneath focused somberness. August tries to ignore the disappointment settling deep into his bones at seeing even this much happiness erased, concentrates instead on trying to place these townspeople. He knows he recognizes Robert’s refined accent from a neighboring kingdom but cannot remember which one; Magnolia looks as if she comes from the realm near the Marchlands, but she bears no accent to trigger his scattered memories.

Emma perks up a bit, always happy to have something to search out. “A mystery, huh? What kind of mystery?”

“One that was never solved,” Magnolia answers shortly.

“I’m the DA,” Robert explains, “and there was a disappearance several years ago that we never managed to close. Maggie and I have never given up on finding some break in the case.”

“A disappearance,” August repeats, and it isn’t disappointment making him feel heavy and tense anymore. He remembers tales of a prince searching for his lost love, a prince accompanied by a mysterious warrior with foreign armor and a sword that could forestall magic. A prince who had run afoul of Maleficent’s terrible wrath and a princess who had been doomed to eternal sleep.

“A young woman.” Robert studies August so closely that the writer realizes his affability is only a mask. This man is no happier under the curse than any of the rest of them, doomed to always look for a woman he’ll never find.

Not unless the curse is broken.

August feels suddenly tired, exhausted and bruised under the burden on his shoulders he tries so hard to ignore but is always reminded of. He cannot dredge up any of his arsenal of smiles, can only stare at Robert and Magnolia, two of the countless people who have been punished by this curse Cora cast for power’s sake.

“Was foul play suspected?” Emma is asking, but August can’t stand here anymore, talking to people who are no more real than he is.

“Sorry,” he interrupts. Emma turns to him with surprise (probably shocked he is interrupting now that she actually has found something of interest), but she narrows her eyes when she sees him.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“I’m just…kind of tired,” he says, using the truth as a shield. “I think I might go lie down for a while.”

“What?” Emma steps closer to him, raises a hand to touch his forehead and check his temperature. “You never get sick.”

“I said I was tired, not sick,” he says with as much of a smile as he can fake. “You go ahead, find out about this mystery, explore, whatever. I just…I need some quiet for a bit.”

Robert and Magnolia watch him, the DA politely concerned, his friend somewhat more suspicious. Emma, though, regards him with real worry, which only serves to make him feel worse.

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

“I’ll be all right.” He wants to leave it there, but he promised Regina and the last thing these people can afford is any delay now that their savior is finally here. “But, how about we meet here, about three-thirty or so?”

“Three-thirty?” Emma repeats. “Kind of late for lunch, isn’t it?”

At that, he actually manages a grin, pleased to see an answering smile lighten her features and add a bit more blue to her eyes. “I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”

She pretends to consider, but then gives in with a smirk. “Make it a double, and I’ll see you.”

“Have I ever _not_ made it a double?” he asks with affected offense. He begins to back away, still watching her, not quite ready to turn away. It is broad daylight, the sky is unclouded, and yet Emma seems the brightest point in the entire town. As if he is not real, as if he is still wood, he feels himself turning toward her, basking in that light, longing for it to drive away some bit of his worry and anguish and guilt. She is the savior, and not for the first time, he hopes that she will save _him_ as well as the town.

But he sees Ruby through the windows behind Emma, and the glare on the glass hides the crimson in her hair, and again he’s reminded that he does not belong here (but neither does he belong in the world outside this town; he is trapped between). Again, he’s reminded that he is observing people who do not know they are being observed. Who do not remember who or what they are.

So, quickly, he bids Robert and Magnolia (he wishes he could remember their real names for them) goodbye, smiles at Emma, and then flees back to his room. He pretends that it is his exhaustion and guilt driving him to hide away as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do, but no matter his reputation, he is not very good at lying to himself.

It isn’t guilt that makes him sit at the desk before his silent typewriter and fondle a hat he’s managed to keep, no matter how many foster homes he was shuffled through.

It’s fear.

He’s not ready to see his father yet. Not ready to look him in the eyes and see a stranger looking back.

So he hides. It fits. After all, he’s been hiding his entire life.

\---

Emma has breakfast with Flayme and Orchid and listens to their details on the mystery of the vanished Dawn Somnus. It’s a compelling mystery, something she might be able to sink her teeth into were it not a ten year old case. However, it _is_ a decade old, and she’s better at finding people who are actually alive, people who run from the law or from their families, rather than a young woman who attracted the wrong sort of attention from someone or other who’s probably long gone by now considering that no one else has disappeared.

Magnolia doesn’t seem surprised at all when Emma tells them she finds it interesting but doesn’t know what she can do to help, but Flayme actually seems disappointed. Magnolia places a hand on his arm; he meets her sober gaze and subsides, then forces an obviously contrived smile and thanks Emma for her time.

Unfortunately, with breakfast no longer an excuse to stay in the diner, Emma doesn’t really have anything else to do until late afternoon. She’s worried about August—she’s never seen him get so pale so quickly or beg off from learning new stories about a place—but he is resting and there is nothing she can do for him. Besides, as close as they’ve grown in the past ten years, they’ve still spent probably less than a year together all told. Maybe he gets like this occasionally and she’s just never been around before when it happens.

She feels restless and constrained, though, so she leaves the diner, chooses a direction at random, and starts walking, keeping to a brisk stride in the hopes that no one else will stop and introduce themselves to her. She doubts she met as many people in all her years of living in big cities as she has in the past twelve hours. The streets are wide and open, the buildings mostly what she’d expect of small towns (and she should know by now, after her last three birthdays and August’s ‘gifts’), and the people that pass her by are as unfailingly polite as they are curious. The clock on the tower in the center of town, topping a library that looks to have been closed for decades, is stopped, and Emma wonders why it hasn’t been fixed. The rest of the town, though perhaps a bit dated, seems to be well-kept, and the frozen clock is jarring and out of place.

It’s past noon and her stomach is rumbling despite the breakfast Flayme and Orchid bought for her (and of course August would choose a town small enough that it has only one restaurant) when she sees a small shop sandwiched between a dead end alley and a closed shoestore. The sign, small and unlit, says _Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiquities_ Dealer, and instantly Emma cannot think of anything but the man who’d greeted her the night before and the strangeness that seemed to cling to him like a second shadow. Actually, he’s been in her thoughts quite often, and despite the dozens of names that have been thrown at her since arriving in Storybrooke, Gold stands out as perhaps the most memorable.

Emma stands across the street from his shop and stares at it, not quite sure why she lingers. She should leave, or else go into the store and confront him, talk to him, find out exactly why he makes her feel both intimidated and inspired (or perhaps _challenged_ would be the more appropriate word). There is nothing special she can point to about him that should so unsettle her, but he did disturb her nonetheless, and she wants to find out why, but she cannot make herself step forward.

As if thinking of him has summoned him, Emma catches sight of Mr. Gold ( _Mr. Gold_ , he introduced himself, not even a hint of a first name, and that wasn’t the first weird vibe she’d gotten from him) walking down the street from the direction of the library, headed for his shop, on his way back from lunch, she assumes. Safely distant, Emma finds herself studying him more closely than she did the night before. He looks different in daylight—no less strange, but in a different way. His eyes are shadowed in the sunlight where before they gleamed with hidden secrets he flaunted as much as concealed. He looks smaller, somehow, slighter, more real, and yet that very realness almost makes him seem more dangerous. The slight limp to his step does not detract from the gracefulness of his movements that belies the wood-handled cane in his hand; the way no one acknowledges his presence does not affect his quiet confidence (more than confidence; something closer to smugness, to triumph, but that doesn’t make any sense). Indeed, it only serves to set him further apart.

He reaches the door of his shop and then pauses. Inexplicably, Emma tenses, feels a chill worm its way deep inside her. She hasn’t hidden—from anyone, for any reason—since she bested her fourth grade bullies, but now, suddenly, she is struck by the urge to duck away, find a place where she can avoid attracting attention. _His_ attention.

Instead, defiantly, she stays where she is.

Gold turns and looks straight at her, zeroing in on her with alarming speed and accuracy. Their eyes lock, and she can’t move, can’t breathe.

He smiles, then, a tiny smirk that adds that gleam from the night before to darkened eyes. As if that secretive smile has summoned it from heavy skies, rain begins to fall, a sharp, cold drizzle that makes Emma shrug deeper into her jacket.

The movement breaks whatever hypnotic effect he cast over her, and Emma narrows her eyes, intent on marching across the street and confronting Gold. He may be intimidating, but he is only a pawnbroker from a small town, and she has bested much bigger fish than him from cities that would swallow this town whole.

But when she looks again, the place where he stood is empty, the door to his shop closed. Emma blinks incredulously, a shiver of almost superstitious fear winding through her before she firmly takes hold of herself. Obviously he ducked inside to escape the rain and she missed the movement when she looked up at the descending rain. More, his smile probably resulted from the fact that she’s the only one who’s so far appeared to acknowledge him at all. She is tired and out of sorts, and August has filled her head with too many fantasies. Gold is nothing more than a small time businessman, probably a lonely man alienated by his incomprehensible sense of humor and habit of smirking as if he knows something no one else does—and to prove it to herself (to quiet the shiver running up and down her spine), she starts to move toward the shop.

“You might not want to do that.”

Emma jumps and whirls to look behind her. She is surprised and taken aback when she sees the police car parked down the street and the sheriff standing a few feet away, a smile on his rugged features. He had not been there moments before, and she cannot believe that she didn’t notice him pull up and get out of his vehicle. Usually the mere glimpse of a police car is enough to strike remembered fear through her. Again, just as before, it seems Gold’s mere presence made her forget her surroundings, something almost hypnotizing (hypnotizing in the way a hawk’s shadow will freeze a rabbit) about him. But that is another foolish fancy more in keeping with August’s storytelling than real life, so she shrugs it off and smiles back at the sheriff.

“I heard you found the boy,” she says. “Good job.”

“Yeah, well, like you thought, Regina knew where he was. Turns out there was just a bit of a misunderstanding.” There is more that he is not saying, secrets behind his blue eyes and friendly expression, but Emma doesn’t care. Everyone’s entitled to their secrets—she certainly has her fair share—and she doesn’t plan on being here long enough to care what the sheriff might be hiding.

“Well, glad everything turned out.” Emma starts walking again, not surprised when David falls into step beside her.

“You have good instincts,” he says. For a moment, while her gaze is fixed on the street ahead of her and not on him, the sound of his voice seems deep and almost familiar, sinking deep inside her as if it was always there, as if she’d known it once and is now remembering it, the new made familiar. Emma swallows a sigh and resolves to keep August from telling her any more of his stories for the next five to ten years. The last thing she needs is these weird feelings inside her when she’s just gotten her life all straightened out. The sheriff seems nice enough, and she admires the real concern she’d seen in his eyes the night before when he spoke of the kid or when he was talking to the mayor’s daughter, and he’s certainly not hard to look at, but Emma isn’t interested in the least. She has her own life, her own concerns, her own problems and secrets, and she doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything in Storybrooke, Maine.

But David is oblivious to her thoughts. His tone is cautiously curious when he asks, “You said you were good at finding people?”

“Kind of my job,” she replies with a sideways grin. “I’m a bail bondsperson. It pays the bills. Well, it does so long as I’m actually out finding people, which I won’t be for a while if August has his way.”

“A bail bondsperson.” David smiles, warm and amused, and Emma feels herself relaxing in his comfortable presence. Which is foolish since she doesn’t really know anything about him. “Not much need for one of those around here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not staying,” Emma warns him, wondering why no one seems to understand that.

“Maybe,” David says, which makes Emma frown up at him. “But if you did…have you ever considered a job in law enforcement itself?”

Emma gapes at him. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been in town less than a day…and you’re offering me a job?” There is something wrong with this town, she thinks, and she very carefully ignores the fact that she feels flattered.

“I’m the only officer this town has,” David admits. Emma arches her eyebrow and revises her opinion of the man beside her. No wonder he looks so tired, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders—but it still isn’t Emma’s problem. “I wouldn’t mind having a deputy, especially now that—” He cuts himself off abruptly, then gives an awkward laugh and shrugs. “Anyway, I know you’ll probably be going back to wherever you came from, but I just wanted to tell you that if you ever need a reason to stay, I can probably offer a job.”

It is so unexpected that she doesn’t know what to say, but David doesn’t seem to mind her silence. He smiles and continues walking at her side, greeting by name the few people they pass, all of whom give him hesitant smiles.

“Thanks all the same,” Emma says when she finally finds her voice. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but…isn’t there anyone who lives _here_ that you could offer the job to?”

“Everyone’s pretty well settled into their places here,” he replies. The answer strikes her as a bit odd, but then, what doesn’t in this place? August has truly outdone himself with this find.

“Speaking of,” Emma says, though it is more to change the subject than continue their current topic, “what did you mean when you said I shouldn’t go to that pawnshop?”

“That’s Mr. Gold’s shop,” David says, as if that explains everything. When she looks at him, he grimaces and adds, “Sorry, I forget nobody outside of town knows of him—kind of weird to realize that, actually. Seems like everyone should know him.”

She frowns at him. “Why? He some kind of famous criminal or something?”

“Criminal?” David pauses and seems to think about it for a moment. “No, not a criminal. He’s just…dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Emma repeats, doubtfully. He might not leave a great first—or second—impression, but he still hadn’t struck her as particularly frightening. (She chooses to ignore the shivers she’d felt upon seeing him; the rain is cold, after all.)

“He’s quiet and keeps to himself for the most part, but…” David shrugs again, seemingly at a loss for words, as if he has never tried to put the pawnbroker into words before. “He’s the only one in town who will dare to defy the mayor. And he gets away with it. In fact, every time they’ve clashed, it’s usually Mr. Gold who walks away with what he wants—like the library. Cora wanted to open it, wanted to make it big and hire several people to staff it, but Mr. Gold insisted it remain closed. And so it did. He’s also the one who backed me when I ran for sheriff—Cora had put up her pet newspaper editor for the job. If Gold hadn’t run my campaign, I doubt I would have gotten the job.”

“So he’s got some political clout, there’s nothing too scary about that,” Emma scoffs. “Believe me, I’ve met a few politicians before—even chased a few of them for my job—and they’re not that—”

“It’s not political clout,” David interrupts her. His footfalls are heavier than hers, but his movements are fluid and steady and he doesn’t even look at where he’s going, just moves forward with quiet confidence that all is as he left it; this is his town, and Emma recognizes the look of it from when she’s in her own element. “It’s something else, like he has something over her. Besides, it’s not only Cora. I mean…if anyone needs anything, things that are hard to find or impossible for them to get for whatever reason, they can go to him and, assuming they’re willing to pay whatever price he attaches to it, he can get it for them. He’s just mysterious, and…and dangerous.”

“Huh.”

David laughs, and shakes his head when Emma frowns up at him. “Sorry, it’s just…your expression—you looked just like someone I know when she doesn’t like my argument but can’t think of a way to refute it.” Emma grins wryly, not able to dispute that analysis. She’s also struck by the way his eyes warm and brighten at the mention of this lady friend.

“Pretty special friend, I’m assuming?” she teases, and is surprised when his smile disappears.

“Every friend is,” he says quietly. Then he forces a smile that rings false from a hundred feet away. “Anyway, I should stop bothering you. Just remember—there’s a job if you ever find yourself in town again.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that,” she says, and she will, but she doubts she ever takes him up on it. She’s a big city gal and proud of it; she’d suffocate in a small town like this.

She wanders the town a bit more, but sees nothing else worth mentioning and eventually makes her way back to the diner. It’s just before three and she could go back to her room for a while, but there’s something in the bustle of the restaurant’s small afternoon crowd that draws her in. She is surprised, then, to see August sitting at a side booth chatting with a young, pretty waitress who appears to have a fascination with the color red.

After debating whether she should leave him be and come back closer to three-thirty, she shrugs and moves forward to drop into the seat across from him. August likes to flirt and tell stories about his travels, but as far as she knows, he’s never done more than casually date. As open and sociable as her guardian angel is, there is a wall he hides behind, a line he draws that he never lets anyone, even her, behind. So she doesn’t feel too bad for interrupting his conversation with the waitress.

“Hey,” Emma says as August and his new friend look at her. “You feeling better?”

“I told you I was fine,” he says patiently. “Emma, this is Ruby; we met her last night, remember?”

“Sure,” Emma plays along, though truthfully, she’s met so many people in the last day and a half that she wouldn’t have remembered Ruby’s name without his prompting. She smiles at the waitress, who flashes a bright smile back. “Hey.”

“Can I get you anything?” Ruby asks. As questionable as her fashion choice is, she’s obviously a good waitress. Or maybe she just wants to avoid angering her grandmother, who hovers by the cash register with a foreboding air as she keeps a watchful eye on her granddaughter.

“Hot chocolate would be great—that rain is cold.”

“Dash of cinnamon on the top,” August adds with a wink Emma’s way. “Don’t know why you always forget to order that when you’re the one who likes it that way.”

“That’s what you’re here for,” Emma teases. “You’re buying, right?”

He chuckles but agrees good-naturedly. “It was your birthday yesterday, after all, so a hot chocolate doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”

All traces of his unusual paleness from that morning are gone, and he is amusing as he entertains her (and Ruby, when she’s not sharing her attention with a young handsome mechanic who comes in and sits a few tables down from them) with stories Emma’s pretty sure he’s making up on the spot, and he doesn’t forget to order her an ice cream cone with a double scoop. It wasn’t her idea to come to this town—in fact, she was all but coerced into it—but she finds that she is enjoying herself, laughing at August and munching on a chocolate ice cream cone. She could almost believe that the past few years never happened, that she has just moved in with August and he is doing everything he can to make her feel welcome and to keep her spirits up. She feels happy, and that is not something she’s experienced a great deal of in her life, so she relaxes and soaks it in.

She should have realized, then, that something was about to happen. Life always decides to throw her a curve ball just when she allows herself to feel comfortable.

Her first hint of trouble comes when August pauses in his latest story, his eyes locked on something over Emma’s shoulder, the color draining from his cheeks. Emma frowns at him, even more so when he checks his watch (she follows his glance and sees that it is only fifteen minutes after three), then twists to see what has managed to shake his considerable aplomb.

A small boy has burst into the diner, the bell over the door shaking violently. He surveys the diner slowly before his blue eyes lock on Emma. His intensity unnerves Emma, so she turns back to August, who’s pushed aside his coffee cup and is looking around the diner as if searching for someone.

“Expecting someone?” Emma begins to ask, but she’s startled by the sound of the young boy, unexpectedly at her elbow, asking her, “Are you Emma Swan?”

Eyes narrowed, Emma studies the kid. He looks almost scared, almost defiant, and altogether older than she thinks he probably is. “Yeah,” she allows cautiously. “Why?”

The boy takes a deep breath, shifting the backpack hanging from his shoulders. “My name is Henry,” he says softly, so softly Emma has to lean closer to him to catch the words. “And you’re my mom.”

Her world is rocked to its core to the accompanying sound of August wincing and saying, “A little early there, kid.”

Slowly, carefully, every movement measured lest it shatter her, Emma turns her head and glares at her guardian angel. “August,” she says, her voice a warning, a threat, a denunciation.

August winces again, then gives her a bright, fake smile. “Emma, your birthday present—I found your son.”

Henry tries to smile at her, too, and all Emma can see is Neal.

This kid has Neal’s smile.

It makes this moment a hundred times more painful.

\---


	4. Losing Henry

\---

_“You can come stay with me.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of hesitation in August’s voice, and it broke Emma. Or would have, except that she had been nothing but numb since they took the little boy (the tiny baby that would have fit just so in the crook of her arm and had looked at her with such pale blue eyes as she did her best not to see) away from her. Numb and cold and so emotionally distant that it felt as if everything around her was happening to someone else, as if she watched it while remaining aloof, wrapped up somewhere deep and small inside of her._

_“If you want,” August added, and now there was something else there, something like nervousness. Her guardian angel, and he was just as human as she was. Just as unsure, just as awkward, but with much more earnestness than she felt she had herself._

_She stirred herself to action, wanting to say something just to keep him from leaving. He wore a navy blue shirt—a dark color, but it stood out in bright relief against the gray she’d grown used to over the past eight months. “I still have a month left on my sentence,” she reminded him._

_“Well, that’s just about perfect.” August smiled at her. She wondered if anyone else could tell how strained it was at the edges. “I’ll move out here, get a job and an apartment, and by the time you get out, we’ll be set. At least for a while. Usually, I move around a bit—well, you know that already—so we’ll stay until we get our feet under us, then we’ll move somewhere else. Start over again.”_

_“A new start,” Emma repeated, and she wanted to break down and sob harsh, wracking sobs. Because she’d given her baby away, signed away his life and his name and her blood, and now she’d never get to see him again—and all so he could have the right start. She wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking, though. How could she have entrusted her baby (her precious boy that had liked to tickle her ribs from his place beneath her heart when she was outside in the sunlight and had depended completely and wholly on her) to the same system that had ruined her life?_

_How could she have let him go?_

_“It’ll be good,” August continued even though he had to know Emma wasn’t paying too much attention to him. “You’ll see.”_

_Emma stared at him (it was better than giving into the pain encroaching along her blessed numbness). “Why are you doing this?” she demanded abruptly. The question was loud and echoed uncomfortably in the prison’s visiting room. “Why do you care? You don’t even know who I am.”_

_August raised his eyebrows, a tiny smirk playing along the corners of his mouth, and Emma was surprised anew by the reality of this man she had only ever known as a voice and a name on postmarked packages. “Of course I do. You’re Emma.”_

_“That’s just a name.” She let out a scoffing breath and looked away._

_“Names have power,” August said softly, gently, the whisper almost lost in the space between them. When she darted a sidelong glance at him, he was serious, mischief and amusement supplanted by weary soberness. “Look, this may be the first time we’ve seen each other in a long time, but I do know you, Emma. I know that you hate doing homework but you love learning. I know that you pretended to enjoy wild parties just because it was the one thing guaranteed to make every set of foster parents mad at you. I know that you like cinnamon in your hot chocolate and you never say no to grilled cheese and you hate wild meat. I know that you can usually tell when someone’s lying and you can’t stand people who run away from their responsibilities.”_

_His smile, this time, was mirthless and a tiny bit pained as Emma gaped at him, shocked all over again—maybe even more now than last week, when she had first received the news that she had a visitor. “And,” he added quietly, “I know that you’ve been hurt and you think that you’ll never, ever be the same again. And you’re probably right. But that doesn’t mean we give up. All right? Things are bad, I’m not going to deny that, but they’re not always going to be.”_

_“How do you know?” She hated the pleading note softening her voice, but it was too late to change it. Besides, he_ did _know her. He was her guardian angel and he knew her better than even she had realized, and he had never betrayed her (like Neal)._

_“Because I have faith,” he answered, and Emma couldn’t help the disdainful scoff that escaped her._

_“Faith,” she said derisively. “That’s not going to help me get out of here.”_

_It wasn’t going to help her baby, either. But she couldn’t say that out loud. August knew about the baby—she had let it slip during his last visit—but Emma didn’t want to keep bringing him up. If she never mentioned him, if she hid him away in the safest parts of her mind and heart, then no one could take him away and maybe this pained numbness could take over entirely._

_“Maybe not,” August said easily. “But I have it anyway.”_

_“Why?” Emma couldn’t resist asking again, this time wistfully. “Why do you care so much about me? You found me on the side of the road—you could have forgotten all about me.”_

_His fingers tapped out a thoughtful rhythm on the heavy steel table. He studied the grated window on the far distant wall, which allowed Emma to study his profile. Finally, he looked back at her, met her eyes, and said, “I think we two were always supposed to be together. I think it was fate that put us together—and even if it wasn’t, even if it was just coincidence…it’s terrible to be alone. It’s better for both of us if we have each other. Don’t you think?”_

_A dozen different answers were bottled up inside her, some derisive, some bitter, some too idealistic for her to ever say aloud. But she paused, just for an extra instant, and she could see something in August’s eyes. Something that didn’t show up in his voice over a phone or in the slant of the letters on the postcards he sent her or in the carved edges of the wooden castles he made her. Something fragile and lonely and even desperate._

_August was her guardian angel, but he had been left on the side of a road too, and he had no one besides her, and he hadn’t even had a name on a baby blanket to keep by him in the dark nights in unfamiliar homes (not a name at all, just like her little baby boy, who’d been given Neal’s eyes and her chin but no name, no family, no history). He was her guardian angel, but maybe she was his too._

_It was a frightening thought—she had just failed the tiny life she’d brought into this world so how could she expect to do any better for a grown man?—but it was also strengthening, even emboldening._

_“Yes,” she answered him, “I do think so. Together, then?”_

_The happy, unrestrained smile he gave her in return actually managed to pierce and dull the haze of numbness surrounding her. Things weren’t any less bleak, but she finally thought that they might one day be better. For now, that was enough._

_“So,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table to bring her closer to August. “What kind of apartment will we have?”_

\---

People rarely listen to him, Henry has observed, and usually that fact annoys him to the point of stamping his foot in frustration (if his mom would ever let him get away with such a thing). No matter how much sense he makes or how astute his observations are or how much smarter his suggestions are than anyone else’s, he is consistently humored, ignored, or dismissed, and he hates it. But now, for perhaps the first time, he wishes his mom _hadn’t_ listened to him.

He has been asking about his birth parents for a whole year now, and at first his mom dismissed his concerns, quickly and defensively—and he understands her reasoning, but he still thought it was important for him to know. It wasn’t until he began asking why none of his friends were getting older on their birthdays, why the calendars never changed and the clock never moved and the clothes on the shelves at the store (the ones Mom didn’t buy for him) were always still right where they’d been ever since he could remember, that Mom took more of an interest. She began looking at him with wide, frightened eyes, as if he might break or be stolen away, and she started working harder to keep him from Cora (which is fine by him; anything that keeps him away from Grandmother is good) and asking him to spend time every week with Archie (which is also fine by him; Archie is his best friend and has a Dalmatian he lets Henry play with).

But then, out of nowhere, his mom gave him a book and told him who his mother is.

And now he really, _really_ wishes she hadn’t.

Because the woman, Emma Swan (he can’t call her ‘mom,’ especially not with the mother he’s known all his life coming through the diner’s doors and seeing him by Emma and staring at him as if he’s slipping away from her even though he’s right in front of her), looks scared. Surprised and upset and angry with her friend, but over all, scared. And Henry hates people being scared—he sees it all the time with his mom—his _real_ mom—when she’s with Grandmother, or when he gets hurt, or…right now.

He doesn’t like standing here between two mothers and seeing both of them look at him like he could destroy them. He wishes now that he’d never asked to know about his birth parents, though judging from the storybook he’s been reading every night with Mom, Emma Swan would have to come to town eventually. He wishes he could go back to only having one mom, wishes he could make the fear in Regina’s eyes go away. It seems so simple to him—Emma Swan is scared of having him in her life, while his mom is scared of _losing_ him from her life—but adults like to make things complicated.

Which is why he really needs to talk to Archie. Archie always makes complicated things sound simple again.

Mom doesn’t want him to talk to Emma, he knows, but that doesn’t make sense to him. She’s here and he knows that Storybrooke needs Emma, and it’s better to just let her know as much as he can. He can’t tell her everything, of course. Not yet. She’s not ready yet, but he can tell her that he’s her son and then she won’t have to wonder why he’s talking to her and Mom won’t have to worry that their secret will come out at the worst moment possible (and that’s always what happens in books, he’s noticed).

So he slipped away early and came to meet Emma Swan and now she knows. Now they all know and things should be simple.

But they’re not.

Because Emma is scared, and she only looks at him for a long moment and then says, “Kid…” as if she’s about to ignore him and dismiss him just like everyone else. And then Regina interrupts and puts her hand on his shoulder, and he can feel her shaking, feel the trembles in her hands just like she always gets when Grandmother’s around, but this is different because Grandmother’s in her office on the other side of town and he doesn’t like his mom being scared now because it feels too much like she’s scared of _him_.

If that was the worst of it, though, Henry thinks he could have managed it. But it’s not. Because life isn’t like the fairytales in books from the school library; they’re harder and grimmer and not always happy, like in the _Once Upon A Time_ storybook. So Emma’s friend (and Henry can’t help but wonder who he is and why he’s there) tries to speak, but Emma just glares at him and hisses something Henry doesn’t quite catch, and then she stands and smiles at Regina, and she’s darting sidelong glances at Henry, as if she can’t quite help herself, but his mom’s hand is biting painfully into his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t even wince because if his mom knew she was hurting him, she would look horrified and then she’d look scared and then she’d run away from him and she’d cry when she thinks he’s not looking. So he just smiles up at Emma and tries to look innocent and as much like her as he can so she’ll believe him and trust him.

He’s pretty sure she believes him. She stares at him for a minute before looking at Regina and saying, “Listen, I’m not…I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Regina says, and Henry is proud of her for sounding so brave and strong. He reaches up and pats her hand, the one on his shoulder, and is rewarded with the loosening of her grip and the easing of her trembling.

But Emma stares at him some more before shaking her head and giving his mom a fake smile. “I’m not here to do anything. I…it was a long time ago, and…”

“I understand,” Regina says.

And Emma nods and smiles (a fake smile, Henry can tell) and then she glares at her friend again (who surely isn’t his dad because Mom had told him there was no father listed on his birth certificate) and excuses herself.

“I’ll see you later!” Henry calls out, because he needs an excuse to see her and start preparing her to be their savior. She looks at him over her shoulder (like she’s seeing a ghost, which is kind of uncomfortable; he’s never been looked at like he’s just a picture of someone else before) and then she disappears back into the bed and breakfast.

Henry wants to talk to Emma’s friend, but Regina pushes him toward the counter. “Get yourself an ice cream cone, okay,” she tells him.

He rolls his eyes and heads over to the counter. Ordinarily, he’d try to eavesdrop on their conversation, but Regina has caught him doing that too often lately, and besides, he’ll learn what he needs to later on, when he sneaks out to meet this man (and if he isn’t his dad, then who is he?) all by himself and find out just who he is. He doesn’t look like any of the pictures Henry remembers, but he hasn’t read all the stories in the book either, so maybe he hasn’t come across his story yet. Well, he’ll look at the book as soon as he gets home and try to find him. It’s best to always be prepared; his mom taught him that.

He wants to talk to Regina about why he did it, snuck away from her to introduce himself to Emma right away instead of keeping it a secret like she wanted, but after she finishes talking to the stranger (who doesn’t watch them go, just turns and starts for the bed and breakfast), she drives him home without saying a word, and he can’t quite bring himself to speak and pierce the shell she’s managed to erect around herself. When they get home, she starts right for her bedroom after telling him there are leftovers in the fridge if he gets hungry.

“I had to,” he blurts out before she can lock herself away where he can’t see her cry and shake and close a tight fist over that gold ring she keeps safe and hidden. “Lies aren’t good, Mom. We needed to be honest.”

“I’m not mad,” she says, but she’s using her hollow voice, the one that doesn’t have anything inside it. It makes something hurt inside of Henry’s chest, makes him want to run over and hug her except that he can’t, not when she’s like this, because it makes her go stiff and it makes him feel worse.

So he watches her go inside her bedroom and shut the door—and he did the right thing, he knows it, but it sure doesn’t feel like it right now—and he really needs to talk to Archie because things are _not_ simple. Unfortunately, he can’t go right now; Archie has other patients on Tuesdays, and Henry can’t leave his mom alone on nights like these.

But he needs to accomplish something useful, so he lays on his bed (leaves his door open so he can see across the hall to Regina’s bedroom, in case she comes out) and studies the book from cover to cover, looking intently at every picture. He can’t find Emma’s friend in any of them, but that might not mean anything—after all, Emma is only a baby in the last pages and doesn’t look at all like the woman in the diner. If she has a friend with her, and if he’s from the Enchanted Forest, it probably means that he was very young in the book, too. So Henry goes back through the pictures and studies each of the children.

Regina still hasn’t emerged from her room when he finally falls asleep, but in the morning, when he wakes up to the leaden realization that he forgot all about doing his homework, her door is open.

Tentatively, padding softly on bare feet, Henry goes into the kitchen where she’s making pancakes and sausage. She smiles when she sees him and reaches out to smooth his hair, and the tight feeling that started in his chest at the diner loosens and uncoils.

“Good morning,” she tells him.

Henry smiles back at her and hops up to sit at the table. “Good morning!” he replies. Everything seems warmer and brighter now that she’s not trembling and doesn’t have her _everything’s fine_ mask on. He doesn’t know that woman, no matter how often he sees her; the woman in front of him—cooking as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, and smiling at him like she can’t look at him and _not_ smile, and telling him she picked up the backpack he dropped in the foyer, _as usual_ —is the mom he loves he most. The one that only he gets to see.

“Apple syrup or regular?” she asks him, holding them both up.

“Apple,” he says firmly, and is rewarded with another, softer smile.

She sits to eat with him, and he scoots his chair closer to hers (not subtle, maybe, but it causes another smile, so it’s worth it) and tells her about the new stories he read the night before. She listens and asks him questions and watches him, closely, carefully, so tenderly that if he wasn’t so busy talking about a curse, he might feel a lump in his throat.

“Oh!” he exclaims, the last bite of sweet pancakes falling back to his plate. “I forgot!”

“Forgot what?” Regina asks, her back to him as she clears her plate away and wipes down the counters. “

My homework.” He offers a guilty smile at her arched brow. “I…got distracted.”

She actually chuckles a bit over that. “Go get it,” she tells him. “I’ll help you do what we can before you have to leave.”

It’s not often that his mom can relax enough to laugh with him and reach out to rub away a bit of syrup from the corner of his mouth, and even rarer that their moments of happiness aren’t interrupted by one of Grandmother’s frequent unannounced visits. But this morning is perfect. Henry sets aside the _Once Upon A Time_ storybook and digs out his homework, and Regina sits beside him and leans over him so that he can smell her, all apples and grass, and maybe just a hint of the stables where she works. She laughs at him, and Henry points to the lines of his homework at the same time as she does so he can feel her hands over his, and for this little bit of time, he doesn’t feel like they’re cursed. He feels like they’re happy and together and hopeful.

And then it’s time for him to go, and the homework is packed away in his backpack with the storybook, and he slides to his feet—but then hesitates, because he doesn’t want to leave, not when everything’s so _good_ and his mom is smiling.

She studies him a second, then takes a deep breath. “It’ll be all right, Henry,” she tells him. A promise, and she gives him so few of those. Wonderingly, sweetly, she reaches out and pulls him into a loose, careful hug. “Everything will turn out all right.”

“Of course it will,” he says for her sake (no need to admit to the slivers of fear flecked through his certainty). He hugs her back and pulls back to grin up at her. “Don’t be late for work, all right?”

“Who’s the parent here?” she returns teasingly.

“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” he asks, but he hugs her again to make sure she knows he doesn’t mean it. Then he shrugs on his backpack and goes out the door with a last wave over his shoulder.

It’s raining outside, but so lightly that he can only tell because of the mist-like moisture he has to blink out of his eyes every few seconds. It’s cold and damp, but he doesn’t mind since it also gives him an excuse to walk very quickly. Regina always watches him until he turns the corner, so he’s careful to keep his head ducked down until he knows he’s out of sight. Then, without breaking step, he takes off running—in a direction diagonally away from the bus stop.

It’s a long shot, hoping he can catch Emma at the diner in the few moments he’ll gain by skipping the bus, but he has to try. It’ll be too hard to talk to her in front of his mom, and too awkward for everyone if he asks to set up a time to meet with her (plus, that would surely draw Grandmother’s attention). So sneaking in the ten or fifteen minutes before the school calls Regina to tell her he hasn’t shown up is his best bet. He only hopes Emma won’t feel as scared today as she did last night.

Granny looks at him askance, but she says nothing and Henry smiles at her in thanks. “Two hot chocolates with cinnamon on top,” he orders, patting his pocket to make sure he has his lunch money.

“She might not like the cinnamon in it,” Granny warns him. She has exceptional hearing, even if her hair is white, and always knows what’s going on, so Henry’s not surprised that she apparently overheard his conversation with Emma the day before.

“Oh, she does.” Ruby raises her eyebrows defensively when both Granny and Henry turn to look at her. “What? August ordered it for her, said it was her favorite.”

“Hmm.” Henry frowns as he wonders whether he should feel disturbed that he apparently picked up the taste preference from Emma Swan—Regina doesn’t like hot chocolate much at all, and less so with cinnamon. More research, Henry decides. He knows Sheriff Nolan drinks coffee, but today he’ll ask Miss Blanchard how she likes her hot chocolate. It might be a clue—or at least a bit of proof, which he’s not too dumb to think they won’t need.

Keeping one eye on the door, Henry pulls out his storybook and opens it to a random page. The picture shows Cinderella, in her dirty rags, sneaking into her stepmother’s room, two mice running ahead of her.

“ _With her fairy godmother struck down by the Dark One for reasons that remained shrouded in mystery, things looked bleak. Almost, Cinderella gave up and ran to her room to cry. But instead, she and her animal friends worked together, using scraps and leftovers from her stepsisters’ dresses, to make a beautiful gown of blue and silver. Gus and Jaq, being very clever mice, snuck into Lady Tremaine’s room and stole a bit of fairy dust that had long ago been garnered through nefarious means and which Cinderella’s stepmother had been using up, bit by bit, for her own selfish desires. Using the last few speckles of dust, Gus and Jaq fashioned for her a single pair of glass slippers, which fit her perfectly._ ”

Henry sneaks another look at the door, then turns back to the book. He’s read this story before, but since he hasn’t found Cinderella in town yet, he looks for more clues.

“ _Of course, that was not the end of Cinderella’s troubles, for they still had to find a way to get to the palace, but Cinderella’s determination and hope, and her animal friends’ loyalty and ingenuity, soon saw her entering the ballroom. One glance was all it took, between Ella and Prince Thomas, one glance and their love ignited like—_ ”

The sinking feeling of disappointment in the pit of Henry’s stomach disappears when the door opens to let Emma enter (and the stranger who might or might not be his dad isn’t with her so she’s alone). He knows she spots him even though she tries to pretend she doesn’t, so he grins widely at her. For an instant, he thinks that she’ll come over to him on her own, but instead, she turns and starts toward an empty table.

So Henry sighs, closes the book, lifts his hand, and says, “Emma! Over here! I already got you a drink.” For good measure, he throws in a hopeful smile—adults always have a hard time turning down a kid who’s trying hard. Sure enough, Emma hesitates, glances around at all the customers pretending they’re not watching, then grimaces and moves (slowly, warily, as if he might bite her) to his table.

“Kid,” she starts, but Henry pushes the mug of cocoa toward her.

“Here. I like it with cinnamon on top, and Ruby said you did too, so I got one for you. It’s good for breakfast, especially when it’s cold outside like today.” He’s ready to keep talking for as long as it takes her to sit down, but luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything more—he hates talking about the weather.

Emma stares at him (again like she’s seeing a ghost instead of just him, and he wonders if he looks like his dad, if his dad is the man with her, if his dad is dead, if he wants to know or is better off not asking at all) and drops ungracefully down across from him. Henry swallows his pleased grin when she curls her hands around the warm mug and takes a sip himself to buy them a minute.

There are more differences than similarities between Emma and Regina, Henry decides, and he likes that. He hopes it isn’t a betrayal to his mom to feel so curious about the woman sitting before him and sneaking little glances of him, like she’s afraid to look at him full-on. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s still scared and just hiding it better today.

“I’m sorry I surprised you yesterday,” he offers with a shrug. “Mom only told me a couple days ago, and I wanted to meet you.”

“You did?” She clears her throat, shifts, widens her eyes. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m glad you said something—August likes surprises a little too much.”

“August,” Henry repeats, filing the name away. He might have asked more about him, but Emma looks almost guilty, so he changes the subject. “It’s okay, you know.”

“Wh-what?” Her hands go white around her mug. Henry reaches out and places his own hand over hers. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. You wanted to give me my best chance, and you did.”

“I did.” For the first time, she stares at him directly, and he thinks that maybe she’s finally seeing _him_ rather than whatever ghost he reminds her of. “How can you know that?”

“Well…” Frantically, he tries to figure out an answer (one that doesn’t involve telling her that Snow White and Prince Charming did the same for her), and he takes a large sip to distract her. “You made sure I was given to be adopted,” he says. “Mom loves me, so obviously it didn’t turn bad. And anyway, you could have done lots of things, but you didn’t sign the papers until you knew there was someone who’d take me.”

The diner seems unnaturally quiet as Emma narrows her eyes at him. “How do you know that?” she asks again. “For that matter, how did you find out that I was your birth parent? It was a closed adoption.”

“There are websites for that sort of thing, you know,” he tells her, trying not to lie. “As long as you give them money, they can find out all sorts of things. Besides, I kept bugging Mom to tell me where I came from until she finally told me all about it.”

“Oh.” Emma takes a deep breath and seems to force herself to relax. The minute she slouches, she seems to gain confidence, more comfortable now that she thinks she’s solved the mystery. “So…”

“So I’m glad I got to meet you,” Henry says. He offers another smile and takes the last drink of his cocoa. “Come on, do you want to walk me to school?”

“School, right. You’re probably late, huh?” She stands, leaving her cocoa only half finished.

Henry gives her a mischievous grin as he tugs on his backpack. “Not if we walk fast.”

There’s a long moment, after he’s started for the front of the diner, when Henry’s sure she’s not coming after him. There’s silence and no sign of motion, and he feels cold and clammy—and even a bit betrayed. But then, with a low sigh and the clatter of a chair being pushed back, he hears footsteps sound behind him. His smug grin might have given him away except that it’s too relieved and wavery to look as satisfied as he feels.

When he stops to pay for the cocoas, Emma starts to pull out a few bills, but Henry shakes his head and lays out his lunch money (Paige will share her lunch with him, he’s sure). “I want to get it for you—your friend said it was your birthday and I didn’t get you anything else,” he tells her. He can’t quite figure out the soft, startled expression that keeps her quiet as they head out into the street, but he thinks it’s a good thing.

She follows him, and Henry can’t help studying her out of the corner of his eye. She walks tall and confidently, as if she’s not afraid of anything. As if she won’t let anything stand in her way. She keeps her hands in her pockets, but the way she makes sure there’s always a bit of space between them makes him think that maybe she’s just trying to keep from touching him accidentally. He hopes she’s not still afraid of him; he’s seen what it’s like to be feared and he never wants to be like that (though he thinks Grandmother actually enjoys it).

“So, do you have a family?” he asks casually. It’s getting late, so he walks briskly, but he knows Regina won’t be too angry with him if he tells her _why_ he’s late to school, so he’s careful not to reach the school _too_ quickly. He’s not sure how much time he’ll have with Emma later.

“Nope,” she says shortly. “Just August.”

“August,” he repeats, comparing it to the names and stories of the children in the storybook and coming up with nothing. (Maybe he _is_ his dad.) “Is he your boyfriend? Husband?”

“What? August? No. He’s…he’s my guardian angel.”

Henry gapes up at her, eyes sparkling with the excitement suddenly coursing through his body. (Because a guardian angel might be just as good as a father.) “Really?”

“No, not really,” she says, and she laughs. It makes her look different—younger, warmer, brighter. She’s brave, but she can smile, and despite his reluctance, Henry is suddenly sure that she can be a great savior. “It’s just what he calls himself. He found me when I was young.”

“Found you?” Henry perks up. Finding people is a huge theme in the book, particularly with her— _their_ —family.

“He found me on the side of the road where my parents dumped me,” she says, and Henry (swallowing back the explanations and justifications for her parents) recognizes the bitterness in her tone even if he’s never felt it himself. “August and I are all we have, each other, so we stick together. Even when he goes way over the line trying to surprise me.”

He looks up at her, wondering if he’s supposed to know she’s talking about him. Apparently, she doesn’t know about Regina and a friend of hers (he’s assuming August until Mom tells him otherwise) sending each other all the postcards Regina showed him two days before.

“Anyway.” Emma shakes herself and turns back to him. “What about you? It’s just you and your…and Regina?”

“Yep. Well, and my best friend Archie. I see him twice a week.”

“You don’t go to the same school?”

“Archie’s a grown-up—Dr. Hopper,” he explains, then wishes he hadn’t when her face closes down as she peers at him more closely. It’s the same reaction he’s seen from others in town who knows he goes to therapy. “I’m not crazy,” he says firmly. “Archie was already my friend, and going to see him regularly makes Grandmother leave Mom and me alone. She likes to boss Mom around, and she doesn’t like that Mom has me now. So she says things about me to make Mom worried. If Mom sends me to talk to Archie, Grandmother thinks that it’s working and she doesn’t try anything sneakier. We call it Operation Cobra.”

“Your grandmother. The mayor.” Emma grimaces. “Can’t say I’m too surprised to hear that after meeting her.”

“You met her?” Henry exclaims, stumbling to a halt. “She _saw_ you? She knows you’re in town?”

Emma frowns down at him, suspicious and confused. She doesn’t know yet how powerful Cora is, and he’s afraid what Grandmother will do to her before she realizes the evil Cora is capable of. “Yeah. Why? Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh. Well. It’s just…” Henry chews on his lip a second, picking and choosing his words with care. He doesn’t want to scare her off, and he knows that talking about curses will not go over well with her. People from this world don’t believe in magic and evil queens and poisoned apples. “She…it’s just that nobody ever comes to town. And she doesn’t like surprises.”

“One thing we have in common,” Emma remarks wryly.

Henry grabs hold of her hand, ignoring her start of surprise. “No! You’re nothing like her! She’s evil and controlling! You’re good and different.”

“Kid,” Emma says after a split second, her expression kind. “You don’t know me. I’m not as good as you think I am.”

“Maybe,” he says noncommittally, looking away so she can’t read his thoughts in his eyes. “But maybe I’m right. You…you could stay.” He kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk leading to the school’s front doors. There aren’t any children around—class started a few minutes ago, but he’s reluctant to leave her side. He likes her, and he’s not sure he expected to.

“Stay.” Emma says the word like she’s never said it before.

“Yeah. You could stay, and we could meet and get to know each other.” Henry ventures a smile up at her. “You might even find out you like me.”

“Oh, I…it’s not that I didn’t…” She flounders, the lost look in her eyes almost exactly like Regina’s when she comes back from long meetings with Grandmother. “I just wanted you to—”

“It’s all right.” Henry squeezes her hand and steps closer to her. “Just a week? Stay one week—or a month—or as long as you want to! I want to be your friend. Couldn’t we be friends?”

She stares at him. Not like she’s seeing a ghost, but like she’s actually, really seeing _him_. And he thinks that she might like what she sees (hopes she does). “I think we could be,” she says slowly.

His grin is wide and beaming and he tugs harder on her hand. “So you will? You’ll stay?”

She shrugs, a light flush on her cheeks. “I’ll stay. For now,” she adds with an attempt at a warning glare. “I have to, anyway—I promised August I’d stay at least a week before I started begging him to leave.”

“And you think you will?” Henry frowns up at her. “You think you’ll want to leave?”

“I don’t know.” Her own hesitant smile is beautiful. It reminds him of his teacher. “It’s sure looking a lot better now than it was when he first brought me here.”

He thinks she’s talking about him. He hopes she is.

\---

School drags on forever, but when he’s finally allowed to leave, he takes an extra minute to wait for the other kids to leave before coming up to Miss Blanchard’s desk.

“Hey, Henry.” She smiles at him. He loves her smiles; they’re always so wide and sweet and loving, like she wouldn’t even know how to be cruel.

“Miss Blanchard, I wanted to ask you—”

“It’s okay, Henry,” she interrupts, placing the pear Ava had brought her into her purse. “No one else is around and school’s over, so you can call me Mary Margaret.”

“Right, I always forget.” He smiles and follows her, helping her straighten the desks they pass. “Anyway, I was wondering—how do you like your hot cocoa?”

“Hmm.” If she finds the question surprising, she doesn’t show it. “Well, this may sound a bit strange, but I’ve always liked it with cinnamon in it. Have you ever tried it like that?”

“Yes,” he says, careful to hide his sudden sense of triumph. “I drink it like that all the time.”

“Really?” Mary Margaret looks surprised, but then she shrugs and lets him go out of the schoolroom door before she does. “Well, your mom knows I like it that way and always makes sure to put in a cinnamon stick when she makes some for me, so probably that’s where you first had it.”

“Then I did get the taste from you!” He smiles, satisfied to have another mystery solved, even if it is a small one. “Oh, are you coming over later?”

“Not that I know of—I’ve been somewhat busy with our birdhouse craft lately.” Mary Margaret pauses and waits for Henry to put on his coat before she leads him outside. “Why?”

“Well…” Henry hesitates. He hates talking about his mom behind her back, but Mary Margaret is her very best friend and if anyone can make her feel better—can make her not feel so sad about Henry talking to Emma—it’s surely Miss Blanchard. “She’s been sad lately,” he says finally.

“Oh?” She’s instantly worried. She knows, like him and Archie, that Regina needs help sometimes. That she needs people to remind her she can be strong and brave, that she isn’t as weak and useless as Grandmother always makes her think she is. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, but I’ll let her tell it.” Henry shrugs and dances a bit, impatient to be on his way now that he’s done what he needed to. Archie doesn’t have appointments between three and four on Wednesdays, but he has one at four-thirty and Henry wants to have time to talk to him before then. “So you’ll go see her?”

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret says, without hesitating. It’s one of the reasons Henry loves her so much—even before he found out she was his grandmother. “I’ll come over this evening and talk to her, okay?”

“That’s great! Thanks, Mary Margaret!” Henry throws her a smile and then he takes off running, eager to reach Archie.

“Be careful!” his teacher calls after him.

Henry runs the entire way to Archie’s office, and he’s out of breath and panting when he finally arrives, glad that the rain disappeared during the school hours so the sidewalk isn’t all wet and slippery. Slowing down to a walk, he pulls open the door and ducks inside, hurrying up through yellow hallways to a green door. The warmth envelops him like a cocoon, so he comes to a stop halfway down the hall and takes in a deep, heated breath.

If he hadn’t, he would have missed her voice. He would have walked right into Archie’s office. He would have stumbled into her.

His heart stops (maybe the whole world stops) as he holds his breath and instinctively flattens himself against the wall. Mom has told him dozens of times that he shouldn’t be so afraid of Grandmother, that she would never hurt him. But he doesn’t (can’t) believe her. He is more scared of Grandmother than anything else, and he wants to be a hero like his grandfather, wants to be brave like Snow White, wants to be bold like Emma, wants to be forgiving like Regina…but he can’t. Because he’s scared and small and insubstantial next to the solid, overpowering force of Cora’s malice.

“The newcomers,” Grandmother is saying, smooth and imperious as always. “There’s something…strange…about them. Something different.”

“Really?” Archie asks, and his mellow voice is such a stark contrast to Grandmother’s, so out of place next to hers, that Henry almost lets out a breath that might have alerted them to his presence just outside. “They seem perfectly innocent.”

“Nothing is innocent,” Cora says. Henry thinks she is smiling, and he shivers. Nothing good comes of her smiles. “They have an interest here, Doctor, and I want to know what it is. Their arrival was too coincidental—showing up at the same time my daughter’s son goes missing. If they have ulterior motives in being here, it would be for the best if we knew of it so we could protect our town.”

Archie lets out a quiet laugh, almost a scoff, and now Henry’s heart is beating fast and irregular in his chest (a woodpecker knocking away at his ribcage, hoping for a breath of air), but he can’t breathe, can’t make any noise, not while his friend is in such danger. “That almost sounds a bit paranoid, Madam Mayor. I’m sure Ms. Swan and Mr. Booth have perfectly valid reasons for visiting—reasons that don’t involve harming our town or Henry.”

“You’re sure, are you?” Cora pauses, quiet footfalls thud slowly within the office—Henry tenses, ready to flee, to bolt, at the slightest glimpse of black and crimson through the open crack in the green door—and then Grandmother says, slowly, methodically, “There are many reasons therapists are employed, Doctor. Many reasons their practice flourishes—or fails—in a town. Those reasons involve being prudent in choosing allies and knowing when and how to take stock of a situation. If I were you, I might want to start evaluating my position.”

There is silence for so long that Henry has to finally give in and take in a breath of air, slowly, gently, a sip at a time. He’s afraid that Archie has been beaten into submission, that he will cower before Grandmother as everyone eventually does. But then, in a firm, steady voice, Archie says, “Madam Mayor, I understand that you have an almost obsessive desire to protect your daughter, to hold onto her. But I can’t say that browbeating or blackmailing is a healthy outlet for that desire. I am a therapist, as you say, and I have an ethical code that I must stand by, so…I think it might be best if you were to leave.”

“An interesting viewpoint.” Cora is still (Henry can see her without having to try, can envision her because she always uses that tone of voice when Regina stands up to her). “Well, Doctor, I am sorry we couldn’t come to a… _mutually_ satisfactory understanding. You’re so sure of these newcomers’ goodwill, then?”

“I think it’s always best to give the benefit of the doubt,” Archie says mildly, but still so strong, and Henry feels a swell of something in his chest—something like the feeling he gets when Mom turns Grandmother away or takes him to the stables even though she knows Cora doesn’t like it. “Expecting evil of someone usually pushes them closer to that evil.”

“Well, if I can’t convince you…” More footfalls sound, and Henry gasps and darts back down the hallway (in the direction away from the door leading to the street), turns the corner and flattens himself again against the wall.

There is the murmur of more voices, a quiet hum traveling through the warm currents filling up the hallway, resonating off yellow and green paint, and then, finally, there is the sound of a door closing. Henry waits another long several minutes, his knees locked so they won’t shake, his eyes closed because he can’t believe Grandmother couldn’t just somehow _sense_ that he was there, eavesdropping on her. And now that her voice isn’t echoing in his ears, in his mind, like poison, he can register the fact that she is already suspicious of Emma and her guardian angel.

Another type of fear, a more distant one, less urgent and intense, begins to creep through his thoughts. Because Emma doesn’t think there is anything out of the ordinary in this town, and she does not expect to find a curse and a powerful spell-caster and she thinks that she can handle anything. Because Cora is wily and smart and tricky, and she knows that something must be wrong because _no one_ comes to Storybrooke but now there are two people who drove in as if anyone can.

He has a problem. _They_ have a problem.

Gathering his courage, taking a deep breath of fresh, stifling air, Henry straightens and walks to Archie’s office and knocks on the door. (His heart skips a beat at the sound, cracking through the vulnerable shield of bravery he has fashioned around himself.)

“Henry,” Archie says, a smile on his face when he opens the door and looks down. All of a sudden, even with his fear and his worries, Henry can’t see anything but his friend. He looks the same—the slight smile quirking his lips and adding that glow to his eyes behind spectacles (that’s what he calls them; not glasses, just spectacles), his hands not trembling at all as he gestures for Henry to come in. There is no sign at all that he just faced down the Evil Queen, that he didn’t let her threaten him and hurt him.

“Archie!” he exclaims, his heart returning to normal, the air no longer stifling but freeing, the office’s mild hues and furniture comforting and calming. “You’re…you’re a hero, too!”

And he throws himself forward, hugs his startled friend around the middle, and hangs on as tightly as possible (because even with this new proof that it’s possible to stand up to Cora, he is so very, very afraid of what she might do to Archie). Archie stutters for a moment, but eventually he carefully pats Henry’s shoulder, and the boy smiles.

His smile turns triumphant, excited, and _brave_ when outside, through time-worn streets, past stagnant buildings, the chime of a clock on Main Street rings out loud and clear.

And Henry thinks that maybe they’re closer to winning than he thought.

\---

Gold doesn’t like leaving the protection of his shop, not now, when Cora knows of the presence of strangers and will be on the lookout for him to try something. To give something away. To lead her to someone. He won’t, naturally (couldn’t even if he wanted to), but he doesn’t like stepping outside of his comfort zone. More than that, though, is his discomfort with the idea of seeking out the sheriff.

Talking to the man who was once a King, who was once a Prince, who was once a shepherd, is never an easy thing. Not in this town. Not since the curse.

Yet, duty demands it, and Gold has come all this way (has hurt and maimed and killed; has driven away and inadvertently murdered the one person who meant anything), so he will not balk now at a conversation that is, after all, bound to be short and relatively painless.

He has, over the years, mastered the art of walking silently despite his limp, so Charming (no, it is David, and he must remember that) doesn’t realize he’s entered the office for a long moment, giving Gold the chance to study him, note the differences for the thousandth time, and dismiss them to the back of his mind. He has far more important things to concern himself with today.

“Sheriff Nolan,” he finally says, and is rewarded by the sight of David spinning away from his desk to face Gold, one hand already on the butt of his gun. When he sees Gold, his eyes narrow and there is a long pause before he lowers his hand.

Gold smirks at him. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Mr. Gold.” David gives a miniscule shake of his head and straightens, nudging a file away from the edge of the desk where he’d almost knocked it off. “What…what are you doing here? Is there something I can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” Gold allows. He takes a few steps farther into the room, his cane clicking against the hard surface of the floor, allows his gaze to roam to the tiny cells stuffed in the corner of the room, past the glass walls of David’s office. “Although, I came more to give you a warning than to ask for help.”

“A warning? What is that supposed to mean?” David eyes him warily. It is a suspicious stare, the stare of a man expecting to hear something he won’t like, but it is better than the bland, blind expressions of everyone else in town. For all that this sheriff is not the King who fled at Rumplestiltskin’s advice and entrusted him with his daughter’s future, he has never been overtly cruel or gone out of his way to snub Mr. Gold. It isn’t much, and it shouldn’t matter, but it does.

So, tilting his head to break his stare with David, Gold gives the suggestion of a shrug. “It means exactly what I said. How are our guests getting on?”

David arches an eyebrow. “Our…guests?”

“The newcomers,” Gold elaborates with an inward roll of his eyes. He is surprised by David’s resigned sigh and the way he turns his back on Gold, steps around his desk, and throws himself into the chair—which creaks alarmingly at the abrupt presence of weight depending on it.

“If you’re here to make a complaint,” David begins tiredly, “I can assure you that I’ve already received a slew of them and it’ll be awhile before I can address it.”

“A slew of complaints.” Gold’s smile is tiny, mirthless, and enough to recapture David’s attention. “Ah, yes. All from those who are in league with, intimidated by, or easily swayed by the mayor, I’m guessing?” He leaves it a question, but he does not need the sheriff to answer it.

“What do you know about it?” David asks, leaning forward, elbows planted atop the files and papers haphazardly scattered over the desk. His badge sits on the corner of the desk where he dropped it when Gold first made his presence known. It gleams in the light, a dark pool of gold against a void of black.

“I know enough to warn you to expect more trouble.” Gold adjusts his stance and places both of his hands on his cane. He meets David’s gaze full-on, registers the dark bruises beginning to show under his blue eyes, the gauntness to his cheeks, the sickly pallor of his skin. The curse is tightening its grip already, he thinks, and the savior has only been here a few days.

“People aren’t used to strangers,” David says, but he lets his tone make it almost a question, waiting for Gold to add more.

“True. However,” Gold flicks his fingers atop his cane, “it’s Cora who wants them gone. She controls this town, no one would dispute that, but these newcomers challenge the balance she’s established. She’ll keep trying to drive them off until they’re gone. They longer they remain, the more things they change”—and right on cue, the clock chimes outside the office, loud and startling even after a day of hearing it sound every hour—“the more drastic her efforts are going to grow. So, just a tip, but you might want to be preparing yourself for some trouble.”

David frowns, drums his fingers near where his badge lies. “Why would Cora be afraid of two people coming to town for a week?”

“ _Why_ doesn’t matter,” Gold says dryly. “Motivations aren’t as important as results, and that’s what she’ll be interested in.”

That seems to catch the sheriff’s attention. He glances up, studies Gold for a long moment, silent and motionless, and for just an instant, Gold can almost believe that it is Charming staring back at him. But that…well, he thinks, that would be even worse than David staring at him so intently, his ample curiosity turning to the pawnbroker everyone in town is supposed to avoid and pretend doesn’t exist at all.

Then a wince, a shadow, crosses across the sheriff’s features and his eyes tighten in pain and his hands fly to grip the edge of the desk, and there is no King anymore. Only a dying man.

“I just thought I’d better warn you,” Gold says slowly. He doesn’t look away—because discretion out of kindness isn’t his way—but he also doesn’t comment on the man’s obvious discomfort—because David may not remember their past lives, but Gold does.

He turns to leave, ready to be away from this place so near to prison cells and past ghosts, when David calls from behind him, “Why do you care?” He waits until Gold turns to fix him with a politely inquisitive expression before he adds, “Who are these strangers that you want to protect them?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to protect them,” Gold corrects fastidiously. “Cora wants them gone. It’s in my interests to foil her plans. We’re not exactly what you’d call allies, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“But why now?” David presses. Even cursed, the man has no conception of when to give up; he has ever been like a dog with a bone when he gets something in his head. He stands, and Gold forcibly prevents himself from straightening to make himself seem taller. “You almost never get actively involved in anything. So what’s different this time?”

Gold takes a deep breath, smells the nearness of freedom, the possibility of fulfilling his self-appointed goal, tastes the bitterness of impatience and frustration and betrayed uncertainty. This town is Cora’s, but it was his first (or should have been, would have been, could have been if he hadn’t been distracted by golden gowns and tinkling laughter and crystalline eyes), and he can no longer tell where he ends and the mayor begins—their influences have tangled and merged and mingled in the air and the streets and the peoples of Storybrooke.

“What’s different,” he says, “is that now…now the variables have changed.”

David stares at him, perplexed and confused, and he is different so Gold does not know him well anymore, but he is not Charming in this world so his thoughts are easily read in his tired, pained eyes.

Gold’s lips twist into a thin smile, ambiguous and enigmatic because that is the part he plays in this worn and edged farce. “Good day, Sheriff Nolan,” he tosses over his shoulder, and he walks away.

Charming would have followed him. Would have demanded answers. Would have drawn a sword to demonstrate his seriousness. (Would have believed him whatever he finally answered.)

But this is Storybrooke, and Sheriff David Nolan is sick and lesser, and he does not stop Gold. (Maybe does not believe him at all.)

For the thousandth time, Gold reminds himself that this is a good thing. For the thousandth time, he is not convinced.

\---


	5. The Thing You Want Most

\---

_“I want a son.”_

_The words hurt (even now, centuries after the pain should have at least numbed; even now, weeks after she’d first told him her wish), but he ignored the salt poured in open, seeping wounds, focused his attention on the papers below him. Records and numbers and amounts and totals, and all of it swam in his head like useless images of the future, swaying just out of reach, elusive and intangible, all tangled up together until there was no way to tell one from another. Useless, a pretense that had already worn thin, and yet he couldn’t stop. If he did, he’d have to look up, look into her eyes…look into what might as well be a mirror._

_“Mr. Gold!” Regina stepped closer, her voice sharp and loud—desperate. Desperate for a son, and even if he hadn’t seen this coming, he wouldn’t have been able to turn her down. “Please,” she whispered, and his pretense dropped away as easily as he set down his pen._

_Gold breathed in, looked up, met her eyes—and he didn’t flinch (because he’d braced himself against the counter; because he was holding onto the wooden handle of his cane as if it were a lifeline). “Ms. Mills,” he said calmly, coolly, even cavalierly because that was what Mr. Gold did. Mr. Gold had never been a father. He’d never lost a son. He’d never wanted to feel the redeeming love of a child. He’d never given himself over to the unconditional love of a parent._

_Mr. Gold was alone and had never known anything different. So he was aloof and protected and distant and he most certainly did_ not _take pity on young women who wanted unconditional love. (Wanted to give it, wanted to receive it, wanted to know if it really existed.)_

_She looked the same, here, in his shop, with the dark shadows falling behind her like a cloak. He’d seen her grow, had watched her change from quiet, happy girl hiding behind her well-meaning, useless father to a beaten, broken woman who’d never stopped mourning the loss of her stable boy. Her hair was shorter here, and she didn’t know the name of the man she even now still mourned, but she had remained more similar to her real self than most people in this town. He wondered if she knew that, if she could sense it. If that was why she had come to him._

_Or maybe she was just lonely and wanted to display some bit of rebellion against her controlling mother, and she knew he was the only one who could possibly procure a baby for her._

_“So you’ve decided, then?” he asked conversationally. Now that she had his attention, she took a step backward. Her gaze fell to the ground before she visibly steeled herself and looked back up at him. (He wondered if it was her fear of her mother’s wrath that made it so hard for her to look at him, or something about_ him _she personally disliked.)_

_“Yes,” she said, her eyes shining as she spoke of the baby he’d told her he might be persuaded to find for her. “I want a boy.”_

_He gave her a tight smile. “Then a boy it shall be.”_

_“Really?” He had forgotten how much younger she could look when she smiled. It was almost as if Cora had never touched her, the way light seemed to spill out of her, bubbling outward from glittering eyes and white teeth and hopeful soul. “You mean…you’ll do it? You’ll give me a baby?”_

_“Well,” he winced and drew himself up, “I can procure one for you. In fact, I’ve already found one. He was born just last night. In Phoenix.”_

_He’d done well to mention the boy’s location last; now Regina was far too busy falling in love with an idea and a person by word of mouth alone (and he knew how that felt, didn’t he?) to be curious about why he’d gone so far afield to find her a baby._

_“Last night?” She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. She stared ahead, toward his backroom, but she wasn’t seeing anything except a tiny infant, chubby legs and miniscule fingers reaching to touch her nose and eyes so innocent and trusting and…_

_Gold cut himself off abruptly, turning so quickly he almost slipped and fell. He caught himself against the counter, gritted his teeth, didn’t look back to Regina until he’d managed to remind himself that he wasn’t a father who’d been unable to protect his son. He was a lonely man, shunned by the rest of the town because of his connections and his deals and his rivalry with the mayor. It was easy to remember. (It wasn’t so different from what he’d been before the curse was cast.)_

_“I’ll have him to you in two week’s time,” Mr. Gold said, his tone smooth and restrained, even smug, because this deal would give him an in with the mayor and ensure he held the upper hand in every way._

_“I’ll give you anything,” Regina had said, and so she would. She’d give him weekly updates on Cora’s doings, photocopies of her files, account numbers and computer passwords and future plans. The best deal he’d ever made, because he won on both ends. Exactly the type of deal he was known for making—in multiple worlds._

_Of course, it wasn’t easy, reaching outside Storybrooke, arranging the adoption of a boy, keeping it all from Cora until it was too late. It wasn’t easy, being given a baby, looking down into guileless eyes, feeling the tiny weight in his arms, heat against his chest. It wasn’t easy, handing him over to Regina, watching her coo and murmur and fall in love with the reality of the child she’d dreamed of for so much longer than she knew, to let her walk away with the baby boy that reminded him so painfully of another moment, another world, another boy._

_But he’d changed since the last time he’d been handed an infant. He was different—stronger and colder and harder and so much more powerful and so much_ less _—and he could reach outside Storybrooke because, betrayed or not, he’d been intimately involved in the writing of this curse. He could handle holding the baby because it wasn’t Bae and because the infant was wrapped extra securely in his blanket and couldn’t reach out a hand to touch his face as Bae had loved to do. He could let Regina walk away with the baby because this was all going according to plan. Because he was accomplishing his goals, and he only had ten years left (a mere decade, and that was nothing at all when compared to the centuries that had come before) until he could resume his search for his own baby boy._

_He cradled that thought, that reassurance, close to himself in lieu of his son, kept it tucked right next to his heart, let it warm and soften the fragile organ, let it protect him when Cora came raging into his shop._

_The bell hardly tinkled, the door didn’t slam, and she walked steadily forward, but he knew her—she was in a rage, and she was furious with him, and he had only one trick up his sleeve to save his life. A trick he couldn’t overuse or play at the wrong time lest she realize he wasn’t quite as ‘cursed’ as the rest of this town._

_“Madam Mayor,” he greeted her guardedly, his eyes narrowed and hard. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”_

_“You went behind my back, Gold,” she said, and the smile on her lips was no more real than the wariness he pretended to feel around her. He was supposed to believe that she could close his shop and take his home from him and leave him destitute and penniless like their resident felon, Sidney Glass. He knew she wouldn’t actually do any of those things (knew she would rather kill him with her own bare hands), but it worked in his favor to let her believe that he did._

_“Did I?” he asked. He shifted his stance, just a bit, just enough to let her see that his hand was white-knuckled on the top of his cane. She relaxed a bit at this sign of her dominance over him; her smile became just a bit more real._

_“My daughter,” she reminded him, gentle as the snowflakes dancing down to bury a corpse in white ice. “She’s a mother now. Thanks to you.”_

_“Yes, I did give her my congratulations.” Gold gave his own, bitter smile, a thin twist of lips like crushed glass. “Motherhood is such a joy, isn’t it?”_

_Cora tilted her head, her eyes narrowing over that frozen hint of a smile. “You knew she kept it a secret. You knew she didn’t want me to know.”_

_“That was specified in our deal, yes,” he confirmed. He took a few steps to his right, moved to the edge of the counter, though_ where _he moved to didn’t matter nearly as much as reminding her of his limp. Reminding her of who he was—and who he had once controlled. “In fact, it was one of the main conditions. I guess she knew you weren’t exactly a fan of sharing. A daughter knows her mother, after all.”_

_“Rebellion isn’t like her. Why’d you do it?”_

_“I beg your pardon?” He raised an eyebrow, a move designed to show his fearlessness as an overdone façade. Sloppy and helpless, that was him. Oblivious to the power he held over her._

_“Why did you do it?” she repeated, every word steel-edged, adorned with elegant inscriptions. “Why empower her disobedience? Why did you go against me?”_

_“She offered me a deal—it’s what desperate people do.” For just an instant, a tiny moment, he allowed his mask to slip, allowed a sliver of the coiled menace resting in his chest to crackle. Only an instant and then it was gone, but he knew she felt it, saw it in his eyes and his features and the curve of his hand around his cane (so different and yet not different enough from his trademark in their old land)._

_Cora took an extra moment to consider her words, letting her eyes fall away from him, taking tiny steps paralleling his own path behind the counter. “What deal did you make with her? Why a baby? What did you get in return?”_

_“A son for a promise,” he said, ticking the points off on upraised fingers, “the baby was what she wanted, and what did_ I _get out of it? Why, I got the assurance that she would never bring tales of_ me _to_ you _.”_

_Every word true. Every syllable precisely chosen. Every sentence misleading. That deceptive honesty, that careful precision, was even more his trademark than the wooden cane._

_But Cora had grown lazy, complacent. This was her town, her victory, her supposed ‘happy ending,’ and she had forgotten just how skillfully he wielded his weapons. And she knew of how he had been betrayed (or he thought she did, assumed she did, hoped she did), so she thought him gullible. She thought he could be defeated. She had no idea that he was more powerful now than he’d ever been before._

_So she smiled, and she made her obligatory threat couched in polite well-wishes and quiet insinuations, and she watched him closely for the next three or four years, but he made no move, said no word, talked to no one that would give away his secret, and after a while, she let herself believe he wasn’t a threat. She let herself be distracted with trying to keep her daughter and vying with the growing baby for Regina’s attention and controlling the strings she kept tied to everyone in this town._

_And she forgot about him, and Gold let her._

_And the boy grew older._

_And Gold waited. Waited for a savior. Waited for his freedom._

_Because, just like Regina, he wanted a son—wanted_ his _son—and he would do whatever he had to, whatever it took, to get him back. Even if he had to go through everyone in this town to do so._

\---

Granny’s seems different, but Mary Margaret can’t quite put her finger on what that difference is. Truthfully, the entire town has seemed different lately, and she knows exactly when the changes started—the day the two strangers came to town.

Emma Swan and August Booth have been here only a week and a half, and already Storybrooke seems like a very different place. The clock on the library tower works, defiantly ringing out the time every hour, and Archie still has friends and patients even though the mayor tried to close him down earlier that week with accusations of perjury, and everyone seems to walk a bit slower, hold their heads a bit higher, smile a bit more.

Everyone, that is, except Regina.

In fact, all the changes seem to be good ones, but Mary Margaret’s not quite sure that they are, because they all seem to be coming at the price of her friend’s happiness.

“He’s slipping away from me,” Regina says. Her eyes are locked on the napkin she’s twisting around and around, tighter and tighter until it starts fraying, and then she only starts twisting it the opposite way. Beneath her hands, the table is littered with a small pile of paper bits. “He’s seeing her all the time now. She walks him to school, and I think she walks him home, and he says he’s seeing Archie in the afternoons, but Archie said he’s not, so I think he’s meeting with her then, too, and I…”

“Hey, hey.” Mary Margaret reaches out and puts her hands over Regina’s, stilling them.

Regina finally, for the first time since asking her to meet her for dinner, meets Mary Margaret’s gaze, and the schoolteacher is taken aback by the bleakness resting in her eyes. “I’m going to lose him,” she whispers, her hands limp and cold. Lifeless.

“No!” Mary Margaret says immediately. She denies so quickly because she is Regina’s friend but also because she firmly believes it. “Henry loves you,” she states fiercely, tightens her grip on Regina’s hand and refuses to let her look away. “He loves you, and maybe he’s curious and excited about this new person in his life, but you’re his mother. And he knows that.”

Regina allows the touch for a moment, but then she twitches her fingers a bit and Mary Margaret drops her hand quickly, not wanting to pressure her. Mary Margaret likes to think of herself as kind and forgiving, but sometimes she has very dark thoughts about what she’d like to do to Cora for what she’s done to her own daughter. If she ever has a daughter, Mary Margaret knows, she will treasure her, cherish her. She won’t destroy her and suffocate her in the dark as the mayor has done to Regina.

“She’s not broken,” Regina says, so quietly that the clatter of silverware behind them almost drowns out the words. She is looking out the glass doors, her eyes farseeing, and the mistreated napkin falls to the table atop its bed of paper shreds. “This woman, this Emma Swan…she’s brave. And she’s…she’s not scared, and she laughs, and she doesn’t lock herself away in a bedroom. Henry teases me about being the parent, and with her…with her, he wouldn’t have to be. He could just…just be a kid.”

“Regina.” Mary Margaret stares at her friend, feels a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, as if the diner is spiraling away from her. She doesn’t care, anymore, about pressuring Regina; she reaches out and grabs hold of her hand again, tightens her grip until Regina looks at her. “That’s ridiculous. Emma is only visiting and she’ll be gone soon, and even if she were to stay here, it wouldn’t matter. Henry _loves_ you.”

The smile Regina forces onto her lips is weak and quivers alarmingly, but that she tries at all is enough to ground Mary Margaret, enough to let her drop her hand and lean back in her seat. “Right,” Regina says, and maybe she’s not wholly convinced, but at least she isn’t breaking down in a huddled mess of tears and guilt in front of the schoolteacher. Not for the first time, Mary Margaret wishes that David (no, Sheriff Nolan, because they aren’t at the hospital right now, haven’t been for a while) had been able to find a way to prosecute Cora for what she’s done to Regina. Not for the first time, Mary Margaret wishes there were some way she could get Regina to stand up to her mother and cut all ties between them and stop being afraid to live her own life.

But perhaps that is unfair. She doesn’t know all that Regina has gone through, and they were never able to find real evidence that Cora abuses Regina, and…and nothing, because Mary Margaret _knows_ it is true, and she is Regina’s friend, but sometimes it’s exhausting always having to talk her back from the brink. And yet, if _she_ won’t do it, no one will. For all his maturity, Henry is only a young boy, and for all that she is her mother, Cora will do nothing to make Regina stronger, and for all that he wants to help, David (Sheriff Nolan) can’t do anything to help in situations where he is not wanted. And so it is up to Mary Margaret.

“What is Cora doing about all this?” Mary Margaret asks cautiously, taking a sip of tea to hide how closely she watches Regina, searching for any signs of panic or uneasiness.

But Regina is used to her mother, perhaps more used to her than anyone else in town, and she seems to expect the question. She takes a sip of her own coffee (black and bitter and still steaming hot) and shrugs, a grimace marring her face. Mary Margaret has been told they look like sisters, her and the mayor’s daughter, but she has never seen it. Yes, they both have ebony hair, but Regina is all bold lines and wide, dark eyes and full lips, while Mary Margaret is pointed curves and slanted green eyes and narrow chin—a contrast flipped upside down in their personalities. They don’t look or act alike, but Mary Margaret does feel as if they hold a special connection, a sisterly bond that makes them closer than mere blood could make them.

“Mother always has plans,” Regina says. “And now is no different, especially since she found out Emma is Henry’s birth mother.”

“Well…” Mary Margaret hesitates, then sets her cup down and decides to go for it. “She doesn’t like sharing either—or strangers, for that matter. She’s not…she’s not trying to make them leave?”

Scoffing, Regina looks away, a minute shake of her head causing the ends of her hair to brush her shoulders. “Mother has never approved of Henry. Why wouldn’t she be happy to have something drive a wedge between us?”

“Why wouldn’t she, indeed,” Mary Margaret repeats in a murmur. Regina is not a good liar. She can never quite get the lies out without having them turn into questions. “So she _is_ planning something.”

“I try to avoid finding out,” Regina says, and Mary Margaret is certain that this, at least, is the truth. “It’s better that way,” she adds, with the hint of a beseeching smile. Always craving acceptance and approval. Never sure of her own plans or thoughts or feelings. Except where Henry is concerned, and then, Mary Margaret knows, she is fierce and defensive and even sometimes bold.

Mary Margaret forces her own little smile, though it is more fake than real and almost not even worth the effort. “Well, I’m sure everything will turn out,” she says, because that is what Regina needs to hear and because she believes with all her heart that Henry will never abandon Regina. “New things are always a novelty, but the excitement wears off eventually.”

Regina doesn’t look like she believes her, but she says nothing, takes another sip of her coffee. Her eyes move past Mary Margaret, and a flicker of something passes across her features—something like cold calculation. Something like menace. Something that makes the resemblance between her and Cora more apparent than Mary Margaret has ever seen it before.

Frowning, Mary Margaret turns in her seat and looks over her shoulder, sees August entering the diner. Ruby smiles when he enters and goes over to greet him, laughs at something he says, and August smiles and laughs too, then follows Ruby toward a booth near the back. They pass Mary Margaret and Regina’s table, and the schoolteacher smiles at the stranger (because maybe things are changing and maybe Emma scares Regina, but they are still new to town and different from everyone else Mary Margaret knows, and entrancing because of those things).

“Hello,” August greets her politely, with a flicked glance to Ruby, who takes the hint and makes the introductions all around. Regina is stiff and quiet, as she always is around groups of people, but she does not look away from August, and that _is_ different. Usually she watches her hands or her feet or something in the distance, always avoiding eye contact. August doesn’t seem to think anything of the stare (he and Emma have probably been stared at quite a bit since coming to town, Mary Margaret thinks) and smiles congenially at them, seemingly content to stand there over their table and learn their names.

“Mary Margaret,” he repeats. He is smiling, and his eyes are warm blue (not quite as sparkling or gentle as a certain sheriff’s always are, watching her over the rim of a mug of hot chocolate), but there is something…secretive…about him. Something hidden in the shadows of his eyes, in the quirk of his smiles, in the politeness of his words. “Henry’s told me all about you,” he tells her, and an unnatural stillness falls over Regina.

Mary Margaret throws her a quick, concerned glance, but she is sipping her coffee as if nothing is wrong, so Mary Margaret looks back up at August. “Henry’s one of my brightest students,” she says, trying to be friendly without offending Regina.

“He’s definitely smart,” August agrees easily. “And quite charming, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” Mary Margaret says. “He’s mentioned you a couple times as well.”

“Well, he’s curious—about everything.” August shrugs, his smile still in place, his eyes still warm, and there is no reason for Mary Margaret to feel that he is trying to convey more than he is saying. (But she feels it anyway.) “I’ll let you get back to breakfast, though. It was nice to meet you, Mary Margaret. And good to see you again, Regina.”

Mary Margaret narrows her eyes as Regina nods at August, the two exchanging a strange look before August turns back to Ruby and says something that makes her laugh as they continue to the booth table.

“What was that?” Mary Margaret asks.

“What?” Regina asks. But she doesn’t look up from her plate, and she plays with her fork absentmindedly.

“That. That look. That…whatever that was.” Mary Margaret gestures vaguely toward August, talking to Ruby behind Regina’s back.

“He brought Emma here,” Regina says after a moment. “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to try to take Henry away.”

“So you talked to her friend.” Feeling slightly lost, Mary Margaret shakes her head and takes a drink of her own lukewarm tea. “You can’t avoid Emma forever, Regina.”

“I know,” she says quietly, that bleakness once more turning already dark eyes almost black.

Mary Margaret would have said more, would have continued trying to cheer her friend up (it is the point of this dinner, after all), but she can’t. She can’t because she glances over her shoulder and past the tables of chatting townspeople, and she sees the diner door open and someone walk in. Someone familiar. Someone she hasn’t seen in far too long.

It’s been two weeks since she’s last seen him at the cafeteria in the hospital. Ten days since he just stopped coming without a word. Ten days and she doesn’t like to think of herself as dependent or clingy, but she can’t deny that she’s felt…empty and drained without those twice-weekly half-hour conversations with him. She’s looked for him, loitered outside the cafeteria and wandered the hospital hallways during the times he’s always been there before, but she’s never caught sight of him.

And now here he is. Here he is, after two weeks of not seeing him, and Mary Margaret feels her heart give a lurch. She feels weightless and lightheaded and dizzy, because he’s _right there_ , tall and concerned, his eyes glinting with a light all their own and his features etched with resolve and concern (such a strange combination that is almost always present in his eyes), and when he catches sight of her, he freezes, stares, doesn’t even seem to breathe.

Gathering her courage (and her presence of mind), Mary Margaret lifts her hand (and it’s trembling, but maybe he won’t be able to tell from way over there) and gives him a small wave, and she starts to smile.

And as abruptly as that, quick and devastating, his expression closes itself off. His jaw clenches, a muscle flutters in his cheek, and he gives her a quick nod, then turns away. Mary Margaret is left shocked, feeling as if she has been punched in the stomach. There is nothing _overtly_ rude in what he did, nothing that anyone else could call him on, but she knows him. She laughed with him over hot chocolate and blushed at his gentle flirting and listened to him joke about the strange calls he sometimes gets at the sheriff’s station, and she has never seen him so cold, so abrupt. So unfeeling.

She feels suddenly very afraid and very, very alone.

But maybe he isn’t intentionally snubbing her. Maybe he is only doing his job and unwilling to be distracted. (Maybe he is Sheriff Nolan here, not the David she knows.) It seems a flimsy hope to grab hold of, but Mary Margaret clasps tightly onto it when she sees David walk to August’s table, his expression grim, his hand clenched over his badge, clipped to his belt.

“Mr. Booth,” David says. He doesn’t speak loudly, but the diner falls completely silent and so his voice carries.

August looks up at the sheriff calmly enough despite the confusion he’s trying to hide. From her place at her usual table in the middle of the diner, Mary Margaret can just barely see his hand clench almost spasmodically over his knee, beneath the table. “Sheriff Nolan,” he says. “Can I help you?”

David swallows, and there is no obvious emotion on his face, but Mary Margaret has watched him when their conversation strays too close to the reason he visits the hospital so often. It’s the expression he wears when he wishes he were anywhere else. “I’d like to ask you to come in to the Sheriff’s station. There’s a few questions I need to ask you.”

“Questions about what?” August tilts his head, still looking up, still outwardly calm, still gripping his knee as if it is a lifeline.

“Questions,” David takes a deep breath, pretends he doesn’t know everyone in the diner is watching him, “about the disappearance of Billy Jaques. He’s been missing for two days and someone reported that they’d seen you talking to him two nights ago.”

“I didn’t do anything,” August says, and now, finally, there is a trace of uncertainty in his voice. The slightest hint of panic erasing his easy smile.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” David assures him, and Mary Margaret can see his earnestness in the way he reaches out a calming hand, the other still holding onto his badge as if he wants to yank it off and throw it across the room. “I just…I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Billy’s missing?” Ruby’s sudden, worried question cuts through the tension building up between the two men, and August blinks and looks down to the table, almost as if he is dazed. David turns to Ruby, and Mary Margaret forgets all her hurt at his recent absences, wants only to get up and rush over to him and put her arms around him. He looks tired and burdened and _hurt_. She wonders (and knows it is silly in this moment, but she can’t help it) if he has been eating enough. If he’s been taking care of himself. If he’s even been going to the hospital at all.

“He hasn’t shown up for work,” David says, “and his friend called to say he hasn’t been home lately. His tow truck was found parked out near the path leading to the old well.”

Ruby looks terrified, and she gasps in huge, gulping breaths of air. Granny hurries around the counter to take her granddaughter by the shoulders, helps her sit in the chair opposite August. “No,” Ruby says, over and over again. “No, this must be some mistake. Billy’s…he’s fine. He just…” But she can’t seem to finish that, and slowly, inevitably, her eyes (along with everyone else’s) move to rest on August.

He tenses, sits up straighter. Mary Margaret can only see his profile, but she sees him swallow, sees him clench his jaw and avoid the waitress’s eyes. It looks like fear. It looks like nervousness.

It looks like guilt.

“Mr. Booth,” David begins, but August stands, interrupting him.

“If you’re going to be arresting me, you might as well call me August,” he says. His confidence, though, is only a façade, and Mary Margaret doesn’t think she’s the only one who can tell that his legs are shaking.

“I’m not arresting you,” David corrects. “Just questioning you.”

“Right,” August says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. His façade wavers and threatens to shatter when he looks down at Ruby, enveloped in the comforting, protective hold of her grandmother. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but then a bitter grimace passes across his face, and he closes his mouth and turns to leave the diner.

David steps after him, and maybe it is only an accident that his eyes sweep over the diner and linger on Mary Margaret, but she doesn’t think so. She thinks she sees longing written there, thinks she sees some inner conflict, as if he does not know what to do. She wants to help him. She wants to bring him a cup of hot chocolate and tease him about his habit of rubbing at the scar on his chin when he’s uncomfortable. She wants to find out why he hasn’t been meeting her at the hospital.

But he turns and he walks out the door after August, and she is left alone. Confused and afraid and unsure, because nothing like this has ever happened in Storybrooke, not since Dawn Somnus went missing so many years before. Granny ushers Ruby into the back, murmuring to her quietly, and gradually, slowly, the diner begins to once more fill with hushed, nervous conversation.

“I can’t believe it,” Mary Margaret finally says. She looks to Regina and is surprised to find her impassive, still picking at her dinner as if she hadn’t even watched the entire encounter. “Can you?” she asks cautiously.

Regina takes a deep breath and shrugs. Her lips twist for a moment before she replies, “It doesn’t matter whether anyone believes it. What matters is what happens because of it.”

“What do you mean?” She knows she is gaping at her friend, knows that she’s talking louder than she should, but she can’t bring herself to care. There is a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, an ominous foreboding that tells her Regina knew about this already. Knew about Billy’s disappearance. Knew that August would be questioned.

“Nothing,” Regina murmurs, but she refuses to meet Mary Margaret’s eyes.

Mary Margaret reaches out to grab hold of Regina’s hand, but her friend is quicker, tucks them under the table, hunched in on herself. “What do you mean, Regina?” she asks again, enunciating each word clearly, her voice hushed and urgent.

When Regina meets her gaze, Mary Margaret wishes she hadn’t. There is that bleak despair there, but there is also a cold dispassion. “It means that one way or another, they’re going to have to leave town. Which is exactly what my mother wants to happen.”

“Are…” She almost can’t speak, almost can’t get the words out. But she has kept quiet before and it’s never turned out well. So she licks her lips and gives a minute shake of her head and says, “Are you saying you think this is Cora’s doing?”

“No,” she says, but before Mary Margaret can breathe a sigh of relief, she adds, “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything. It’s better that way.”

And then, before Mary Margaret can close her mouth or try to find a way to combat that, Regina scoots out of the booth and stands. She looks down at Mary Margaret and gives her a sad smile. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s probably nothing. I should go—Henry will be done with his session in a couple minutes and I want to be there when he gets out.”

She walks away and Mary Margaret is left behind, staring after her, wondering if she knows her best friend half as well as she thought.

\---

Sometimes David hates his job. Sometimes he wishes he could go tell Gold to find someone else to push forward as sheriff, someone else to have to listen to Ginger’s complaints and the mayor’s demands, someone else to watch bad things happen over and over again in this town and not be able to do a single thing to stop them.

Someone else to read the lab results sitting on his desk in front of him and arrest the man all this evidence is pointing toward.

But there is no one else. It’s just him, here long after nightfall, all alone in an office, staring at blood broken down to its basic components and clearly labeled as Billy’s. Blood he found the day before, after questioning August Booth, after asking him if he could examine his motorcycle, parked so incongruously next to Emma’s yellow bug.

Just him, swallowing back dread and suspicion and guilt, looking over to where he keeps the handcuffs he doesn’t remember ever using, and knowing that he’s going to have to go to Granny’s, knock on the door to August’s room, and arrest him.

And he knows, he _knows_ , that this is all some kind of trick, or a misunderstanding, or…or a frame job. Because there is no way that August killed Billy three days ago and hid the body and then went back to the diner and told Ruby stories. There is no way, and David can’t explain how he knows that, but he knows it with an unshakable certainty. He didn’t believe it even when he called August in to question him, and his conviction only strengthened after the questioning.

August met Billy the evening before he’d gone missing. He’d been talking to Ruby in the diner when Billy came in to pick up the waitress for their date. August had, according to Ruby and several eyewitnesses, looked surprised and then grim (or sad, or disappointed, or nothing at all, depending on the witness) as he watched Ruby go off with Billy. It’s a well-known fact that August and Ruby are friendly, that he spends two or three hours a day telling her stories about places he’s seen and adventures he’s had, feeding her wanderlust. It’s an assumed fact that he is interested in the waitress for more than just storytelling. It’s deductive reasoning to say that he didn’t like finding out he had competition for the waitress’s attention.

The timing adds up, the motive is clear, and now the bits of bloodstains ground into the dirt and pavement around his motorcycle match Billy’s, and this should be the easiest murder case David’s ever heard of.

But it’s wrong. It’s _too_ easy, _too_ simple, _too_ obvious. And maybe it’s foolish, or naive, or maybe it’s yet another mark of the cancer’s effect on him, but David _believes_ August’s surprise and fear and story. Believes Emma’s righteous indignation and blatant shock and staunch support of her friend. He believes them.

And he knows Cora.

And Regina did not even look over her shoulder at him, in the diner, when he asked August to come in for questioning.

And all that adds up too, the motive just as obvious, the timing just as convenient, and all of it so much more believable than a random stranger entering a town to violently murder a mechanic.

But there is no proof, and David has a warrant out for August W. Booth’s arrest, and he’s still the sheriff.

It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done. The short drive to the bed and breakfast is even shorter than he remembers. The look on Granny’s face as he asks for August’s room number makes it hard to meet her eyes. The walk up the stairs, down the dark hallway to the last door, is like a march to his own execution, and he almost doesn’t have the strength to rap on the door.

When August opens the door, there is a flash of surprise, a shock of fear, and then dull, wounding resignation. “Sheriff Nolan,” he says. He’s trying to be polite, but his hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the door.

“Mr. Booth,” David replies, and then he winces and looks down. “August.”

The way August’s face goes shuttered and dark makes David feel even worse.

August doesn’t put up a fight. He listens to David recite his rights, his eyes glassy and flat, staring straight ahead, and when David takes his arm, he follows him meekly down the stairs and to the squad car. David can’t bring himself to cuff him, and he books him as swiftly and politely as possible. An almost negligible mercy, but it is all David has to give him.

Sometimes (most of the time) he hates this job. Sometimes (all the time) he wonders why he ever wanted it. Sometimes (right now) he wants to give up. But he can’t. He can’t because the people of Storybrooke are depending on him. Because Billy either needs help or deserves justice. Because he might just be the only person in town who will fight to prove August innocent rather than guilty.

All of those are good reasons, but perhaps the most important is the desolate expression so sloppily concealed on August’s face as he sits on the cot in the cell across the room. The terrible fear and anger and concern blazing in Emma’s eyes as she bursts into the office and makes straight for August, whirling to flash fury and betrayal at David, doused into empathy and more fear as she rushes to August, her body fairly seething with energy and purpose as she calls his name.

Looking up at her approach, August gives a pale smile and rises to his feet. “Hey,” he greets her. “So you’re talking to me again now—at least one good thing will come from being accused of murder.”

“This isn’t funny, August!” Emma snaps fiercely. She stands in front of his cell with her legs spread wide, her hands on her hips. (She stands as if she is a champion about to go to battle.) “This is serious! It’s life and death, and very, very real—it’s not like your stories and your fairytales, so stop acting like it, all right?” David is surprised by the almost pleading note that slides in to burnish the clarion call to arms she’d started out with, surprised enough to slow his own steps and give them a moment more.

“I’m sorry,” August tells her, softly, his smile evaporating as if it is nothing more than smoke (or a smoke-screen). He curls a hand around a greenish bar, shares a private look with Emma, and finally Emma reaches out her own hand and places it over his. Tension leaks from her tall, slender frame and is replaced with bone-deep resolve that radiates off her so tangibly that even David, halfway across the room, can feel it.

“It’ll be all right, Emma,” August whispers, and David glances away because he doesn’t think these words are meant for him. “You’re here now—that’s what matters. That means everything will be all right in the end.”

Emma’s head droops a bit, but her smile is fond. “How many times do I have to tell you that ‘happily ever after’ is just an outdated saying designed to give people unreasonable hope?”

August shrugs, and though he still does not smile, he looks as if he wants to. “At least a few times more, it seems.”

Uncomfortable, David shifts his feet and clears his throat.

Emma straightens and turns to face him, and he might have imagined the softness, the fondness, the weakness in her voice, might have made it all up, because the woman staring him down now is tall and straight and afire. “He didn’t do this!” she asserts definitively, her hands on her hips, defiance blazing from every inch of her. “August is many things—he’s impulsive and infuriating, and he wouldn’t know truth if it leaped up and bit him in the nose—but he’s not a killer! He didn’t do this!”

“I know,” David says calmly. He might as well have stood on his head and recited a nursery rhyme for all the strength of their reaction, Emma gaping at him and August’s head whipping toward him.

An instant later, however, Emma narrows her eyes and studies him suspiciously. “ _How_ do you know?” she asks. “How can you be sure? We’re strangers to you.”

Despite the situation, David can’t help the amused quirk to his lips at the abrupt turnaround. But the situation _is_ serious and there is no time for humor, particularly when he feels drained and weary, so he sighs and forces his spine to stiffen and support his weight. He has the sudden urge to put his hands on his hips, as if Emma is rubbing off on him, but that would require too much energy and focus and purpose, all things the cancer has slowly been robbing him of.

“Look,” he says slowly, choosing his words with care, “evidence is usually hard to find. It doesn’t generally just fall in your lap at the snap of your fingers. But everything about this case has been… _easy_. Way too easy, as if someone set all the clues and is leading me by the hand to each one.”

“Usually it takes a lot of work to convince the police of a frame-job,” Emma says skeptically. August says nothing, but his eyes are intensely fixated on David, making him even more uncomfortable, so he focuses his own attention on Emma.

“I…” David shifts his weight again, shrugs, swallows, looks away. It is hard to think on these memories, hard to remember how badly he failed, but he needs Emma and August to trust him if he is going to help them. So he pushes the words through his regret and his blame. “A while ago, something happened. I knew that someone was responsible for something bad—I had never been able to prove it before, but then I found something. It was small, not enough to lead to evidence of the larger crime, but enough to open the door. It was the only chance I had, and I took it. But somehow this person knew I was coming, and had everything swept away. Someone else took the fall for the little bit of proof I had, my witness went silent, and the guilty party got away free and clear. It’s not the only time something like that has happened, either, and this…this is exactly the kind of thing they might do. Besides, I had a warning the other day that someone might be making trouble for you two.”

“The mayor,” Emma guesses immediately, her face grim. David studies her for a long moment. It was hard, a week ago, to wrap his head around the fact that this woman is the birth mother of Henry, the reason Henry had run off and worried Regina so much. But now, looking at her and seeing Henry’s sage eyes staring back, it isn’t hard at all, and he wonders how he ever could have missed it. She looks familiar, feels familiar, and there is something about her that makes him feel as if he has known her a very long time, longer than makes any sense at all.

“Yes,” he finally says. “But there’s never any proof, and no one will talk. This has her written all over it. So I believe you. And I’m going to help you find a way to clear August’s name.”

“A regular prince charming,” August says, and the words sound derisive, but when David glances to him, he is startled by the approval and pride apparent in his smile.

“Oh, come on!” Emma berates August with a roll of her eyes. She looks back to David. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Please.” David holds up a hand, surprised that it isn’t shaking as it’s taken to doing lately. “If I’m going to be helping you, you might as well call me David, both of you.”

“David.” Emma smiles, warmly, a ray of sunshine breaking through the cold, fierce exterior. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until we clear your name,” David says, chancing a look back to August, glad when he no longer sees that odd pride staring back at him.

“Well, it appears I’ve arrived just in time, then.”

David feels his heart jump and he whirls toward the sound of the new voice. He knows who it is, of course—even if he didn’t recognize the accented voice, only Mr. Gold can routinely and effortlessly sneak up on him—but he is still surprised to see the slight, secretive man standing in the Sheriff’s station for the second time in as many weeks. Times were that no one spotted Mr. Gold outside of his shop for months on end, and yet ever since Emma and August have arrived, he’s been out and about as if he’d never hidden away. It makes David suspicious, leaves him feeling confused, and a shiver trembles up his spine when he remembers Gold’s warnings about Cora.

August’s hands curl tightly around the bars, so tightly that one of them creaks, but Emma merely glares at Mr. Gold. Both interesting reactions that David doesn’t feel up to deciphering.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. It’s late, late enough that most people are home thinking of going to bed, but Mr. Gold looks as put together as if it is early morning. He also looks as if he has a secret that delights him.

“You know, if you keep asking me that, Sheriff, I’m going to start thinking you don’t want me around.” The slight curve to his thin lips can be defined as a smile only technically; it is cold and mirthless and nothing more than a mask Gold displays only perfunctorily.

When Emma looks back to August, when David only stares at him, Gold gives the suggestion of a shrug and sets his hands atop his cane. “I came to offer my services as legal counsel for Mr. Booth.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Emma asks before David can decide what to make of that answer. “I thought you were a pawnbroker.”

“It’s a hobby,” Gold says vaguely, this smile even smaller but a bit more real. “But it looks as if Mr. Booth is going to be in need of help, and I highly doubt there’s anyone else in town who will take him on. I think it’s safe to say that you’ve acquired some very dangerous enemies simply by entering town.”

“Why would you want to help me?” August asks. David glances over his shoulder at the man, sees him staring at Gold as if there is something hidden in the pawnbroker’s shadow, something he wants to spot and define and understand. (He stares as if he is not sure whether he is looking at a savior or an enemy.)

Gold meets August’s eyes calmly. “I’d think you’d just be happy that someone wants to help you at all.”

“No, he’s right,” Emma interjects. “You don’t seem like the type to put yourself on the line without expecting something in return. Why help us?”

“Many reasons,” Gold says dismissively.

Emma straightens, crosses her arms over her chest. “Name one.”

“You,” Gold returns without even a beat of hesitation. David flicks a glance to Emma, sees her scowling at Gold as if she can figure him out through sheer force of will (David wishes her luck on that one), and then looks back toward Gold, who doesn’t flinch at all under the pressure of three sets of eyes on him.

“Since you’ve entered town,” he continues conversationally, “people have begun to ignore or even defy the mayor. She’s had to turn all her attention to the threat _you_ represent—to her daughter, to her grandson, to her town—and she’s begun to let her interest in other things fade a bit. You, Ms. Swan, and your friend are catalysts for change. Perhaps it’s time to draw some battle lines. Now,” he straightens, his tone becoming brisk, confident, sweeping them along in his wake, “I can hardly say that I know where that change will lead us, but I do know that it’s never wise to ignore those who help you, even if only inadvertently. So, I wish to help Mr. Booth because it helps me. An investment, if you will, in the future.”

“An investment in the future,” August repeats, and there is sudden hope flaring in his eyes, erasing the resignation that has dulled them since David arrested him. His hands are still curled around the bars, but now they are loose, his knuckles no longer white, and he stares at Gold as if suddenly recognizing him as a long-lost friend.

Emma watches August for a moment, and David knows she sees the hope in his eyes because her shoulders slump a bit (the champion sheathing her sword) and she turns back to Gold, takes a deep breath. “We don’t have much, but I’m going to assume you already know that. So what’s the price?”

It is frightening, how quickly the mood changes. August is hopeful and wondering one instant; the next, he is tense and anxious and almost frightened. Mr. Gold was calm and casual and conversational, but now, suddenly, he is expectant, his eyes glittering with triumph, his body leaning ever so slightly forward. Even David, though he cannot explain why, feels nervous, on edge, aware that something bigger is happening underneath the scene before him. And it’s a strange enough scene already—the man behind bars seeming more relaxed than the woman so stalwartly defending him, the sheriff the weakest one present, and the smallest, quietest man holding power of a sort David thinks surely has to be only a passing fancy brought on by his exhaustion.

“Oh, I have no need of money,” Gold says, flicking a dismissive finger, his eyes still hooded and sharp. “Why don’t you just…owe me a favor?”

“No!” August cries, the abruptness of his denial startling Emma. (Gold, David notices, doesn’t even look at the younger man.) “It’s not worth it, Emma. Don’t!”

“What are you talking about?” Emma demands, her hands curving over August’s as if she wants to shake him. “This might be your only chance!” She turns back to Gold, squares her feet and stares him down, asks quietly, “What kind of favor?”

Gold tilts his head a bit. “Well, I don’t know yet. But I assure you, after I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t,” August pleads, quietly, intently, desperately. David watches, out of his depth, not quite sure what to make of it all. (He wishes that he had gone to his latest appointments, filled his last prescription, because to be able to think, he needs a reprieve from the constant pain.) “He’s not the sort of man you want to owe anything to.”

“David?” Emma turns, surprisingly, to him, and David can’t help but stand a bit straighter, fight back the pain for this moment. She’s looking at him as if she might trust him, and he knows enough to know that’s not something she gives lightly, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her.

But he doesn’t know what answer to give her, either. There is no straight answer, no easy solution, and whatever he tells her might lead her wrong. August watches, face pale, eyes tight, mouth clamped shut. Gold doesn’t turn David’s way, but there is the slightest edge of tension to the line of his back and shoulders, in the way he holds onto his cane, and somehow, David realizes, for some reason, the sheriff’s answer matters to him. And Emma is still looking at him, for answers, for direction, for advice.

“It’s your decision,” he says with a helpless hand gesture. But that is the easy way out, and her trust deserves more, so he adds, “But Gold always keeps his deals, and so far as I know, he doesn’t lie.”

Gold relaxes, just a hint, not nearly enough to notice except that David is watching for it. Emma nods, already making her decision, while August leans his forehead against the bars, his eyes fluttering closed.

“But,” David says, startling them all, “I will warn you that some people who’ve owed him have been left with nothing.”

Gold flinches, as if the words are a blow, but when Emma looks back at him, he is impassive, neutral, completely impervious to David’s words or the outcome of this conversation. David feels a crease mar his brow as he stares at the pawnbroker (because he and the pawnbroker have hardly spoken since his campaign years ago and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for Gold to care what David’s opinion of him is, and yet he obviously does).

“Well,” Emma says musingly, “August is all I have, and I’m about to lose him anyway. So, you’ll help August if I owe you a favor?”

“Indeed I will,” Gold claims.

The silence stretches out for what is probably only seconds but feels like long, breathless moments. August murmurs, “No, Emma,” and as if that prompts her own words, Emma gives a decisive nod and holds out her hand.

“Deal.”

Gold doesn’t smile. He doesn’t straighten or gloat or flash a victorious expression. Instead, he tilts his head and looks up at Emma from under his lashes and asks, “You’re satisfied with this deal, then? I will help Mr. Booth with this murder accusation, and in return, you’ll owe me a favor?”

“Yes,” Emma says impatiently. “Just clear his name.”

“Deal,” Gold says, and he reaches out a careful hand to share a brief handshake with her. Behind them, August sinks down onto the cot. Gold looks in his direction. “I’ll be by in the morning, Mr. Booth, to discuss our strategy. We have a great deal to talk about.”

David doesn’t watch the pawnbroker go. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at his feet. He really isn’t sure if he said what he needed to, if Emma made the right decision, if August should be so scared of Emma owing Gold a favor when it’s he who is in trouble, but then, uncertainty isn’t anything new. David’s been feeling out of his depth for years now, always a step behind, always left wondering whether he did the right thing or not.

He cannot help but remember the expression on Mary Margaret’s face, when he turned away from her in the diner. It’s the wrong time to be thinking of her, but he always thinks of her, and there is never a right time because he doesn’t have any time left at all. He wonders if the reason he wants to help August and Emma so badly is because it might be the last good thing he gets to do. He couldn’t help Regina, couldn’t find the DA’s girlfriend, couldn’t save Mary Margaret from pain even though he’s trying so hard to do exactly that—all he has left to him is to help Emma and August, and find out who really killed Billy.

Maybe wanting to take down the mayor on top of all that is a bit too much to hope for, but at least he won’t go out without trying yet again.

“Emma,” August groans. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“This is how people get happily ever after in real life, August,” Emma says unsympathetically. “You need a lawyer, and he’s right—no one else in town will help us. We haven’t exactly made a ton of friends since we got here.”

“You’ve made a few,” David says quietly, and strangely, he feels his pain recede a bit when Emma smiles at him.

“I’m glad,” she says. Even August manages a tiny smile for him.

“Yes, well.” David shifts a bit, uncomfortable. “You should go get some sleep. I’ll stay here with August for the night. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Emma asks, almost pleads.

“Well…” David hesitates, but he knows he can’t do this all himself, and conflict of interest or not, Emma is the most qualified (and the most motivated) in town to help him. “Billy’s tow truck was found on the road leading to an old well. I’m going to go up and look around in the morning, see if I can’t find anything else. We’ve already made a quick, routine search, but another set of eyes can’t hurt.”

“Great!” Emma says, so full of determined, stubborn energy that he doubts she’ll be getting any sleep at all. “What time?”

“Meet me here at six,” he says. “We’ll stop by to pick up our local forest ranger, get him to help. He’s a skilled tracker and knows the forest better than anyone—don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t talk to you, though.”

Emma frowns at him, one of her hands casually, subtly, curving around a bar near August. “What? Why not?”

David hesitates, hating to spread gossip, but she’ll likely hear the story eventually anyway and if he tells it, he can avoid the most painful parts, so he says, “A while back, he and Regina were kind of…dancing around each other, and maybe it could have led to something, but her mom caught wind of it. Suddenly things started happening to him—his truck was wrecked, his house had a gas leak, rumors were spread about him, things like that. Regina never spoke to him again, and he’s liked to keep to himself ever since, hardly speaks a word at all to anyone.”

August stands, his hand falling, as if by accident, on top of Emma’s (and David envies their casual reliance on one another). “What’s his name? This ranger.”

“Graham,” David says. “His name is Graham Humbert.”

\---

Cora’s pleased. It’s been a good week, and likely to get even better once this matter of August Booth and Emma Swan is settled once and for all. A strange aberration, these strangers to Storybrooke, and one she’s sure Rumplestiltskin (or rather, his counterpart, Gold, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?) knows more about than he’s saying. He’s always, even in their closest days, loved to rile her by withholding some seemingly insignificant, deceptively important detail. It’s been decades since Rumplestiltskin even existed, and decades more since they were on speaking terms, but she can still hear his high-pitched voice tutting impatiently and instructing her, “The small weapons, dearie, the tiny details—they’re always the most important. And the most effective.”

Well, too bad (for him) he hadn’t paid attention to his own advice. Too bad for her, too, because if he hadn’t let himself be misled and fooled, Gold might even now be Rumplestiltskin and she could cajole and bargain with him to tell her the secret of why these two strangers, of all people, are allowed inside the curse’s barriers. She wants to believe it is only because of Henry, but she has dealt in magic far longer than she’s been a mayor and she well knows its quirks and loopholes and slipping, sliding tendency to trick and trap the unwary.

Cora wonders if she has been unwary. She wonders if she has been tricked and trapped.

“There is one thing—and one thing only—that can put an end to this curse,” she’d been warned by the one person who knew better than any other. “Only the child of True Love can break the curse.”

Oh, she’d been warned, and yet still she’d failed to find Snow White and her Prince Charming after they’d vanished with their unborn child. She still feels a trace of fear, still feels the same shiver that moved through her when Spencer told her this Emma Swan just turned twenty-eight. The perfect age.

Cora is afraid of what that means.

She is afraid Rumplestiltskin will have his victory after all.

But not today. Today, she is winning and she is on top and no one can make her bow. Booth is in prison with a mountain of evidence piling up against him, and soon Swan will have to leave town—to find a lawyer or push for an appeal or even just to follow Booth to the nearest maximum-security prison. And if they suffer a fatal accident trying to cross out of the curse’s reach, so much the better. This is Cora’s town, and they don’t belong.

Yes, she thinks again, leaning back in her chair and surveying her immaculate office, all vivid reds and molten browns, plush cushions and hidden sharp angles. Even the strident ring of the phone on her desk cannot mar the smile she allows herself to indulge in.

“We have a problem.”

Cora’s eyes narrow at the deep, authoritative voice, straight and to the point and so very unwelcome. “That’s not a message I want to hear right now, Spencer,” she says calmly. “Five days ago, I gave you a foolproof plan. Four days ago, you told me our little helper had everything taken care of. Two days ago, your paper gave me headlines assuring me these strangers would soon be dealt with. Yesterday, I went to bed with the assurance that in a matter of a few weeks, Storybrooke would once more be clear of outsiders. So why, today, would you be telling me that we have a problem?”

“Gold’s helping them.”

Her office is silent around her, quiet and large, every inch of it exuding power and comfort and taste. It is, suddenly, stifling. Her hand tightens around the phone as Cora inhales a carefully measured breath. “In what capacity?”

“He’s Booth’s attorney,” Spencer says. He is calm, unaffected; the King she once made an alliance with—the newspaper editor she can always count on—he’s never been one to give into panic. It makes the very fact that he felt this phone call necessary somewhat worrisome. “But it gets worse than that, because Sidney says Gold was sniffing around that cabin of his early this morning. Plus, the sheriff took Ms. Swan out near the well with Graham.”

“The ranger continues to be a nuisance,” she murmurs. “But no matter. There’s nothing for them to find up there.”

“Sidney isn’t the brightest bulb around,” Spencer snaps, finally revealing a touch of nerves. “He’ll do anything for money, but that doesn’t mean he’s competent.”

Cora lets out a contemptuous breath. “It’s still containable. That is why we hired him, after all. Should the trail lead away from Booth, it only leads to him, and no one in town will blink an eye at the thought that our homeless ex-felon would stoop to crime again.”

“Maybe,” Spencer allows impatiently, “but he’s not exactly loyal either.”

“He has no proof, and anything he says will seem merely the desperate lies of a condemned man. Who would believe that the mayor and the respected city editor would have anything to do with the grisly murder of a mere mechanic?”

Spencer is quiet a moment, as if thinking it through, before he says, “All right. But what do we do about Gold?”

“I’ll handle Gold,” Cora says coldly. Her smile is long gone, but she is still poised, still in control. It’s been lifetimes since she’s been anything else, and she won’t allow that to change now, not even at the necessity of having to seek out the man who was once Rumplestiltskin.

It is the work of moments to cancel her appointments for the morning, the work of an hour or so to return to her stately mansion and dress in the pale creamy white Rumplestiltskin had so enjoyed on her, to touch up her makeup and apply a bit of perfume she’s sure he’ll enjoy (the small weapons are the most effective), and then only minutes more to drive to the shop she bequeathed to him in this new, better world.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Gold greets her as soon as she steps into the dimly lit interior. She is taken aback when he sets his cane in hand and moves out from behind the counter. She’s taken pains to keep her visits to his shop as few and as rare as possible, but every time she’s come, he’s always remained behind that counter, as if some part of him remembers that he is vulnerable to her. And yet here, for the first time, he fearlessly moves out into the center of his shop, and there is a complacent smile twisting his features into something so far from the Rumplestiltskin she remembers it is as if she is facing a stranger.

“Have you?” she manages to reply with a casual arch of her brow. “Curious. I wasn’t planning on visiting today.”

“Well, I knew Spencer would come running with tales of my newest…hobby, shall we say. Truthfully, I expected you an hour or so ago; your lackey’s getting a bit slow in his old age.”

She lets out a tinkling laugh, tossing her head back just a bit, watching him closely from beneath lowered lashes. She is older, here, and more uncertain with Mr. Gold than with Rumplestiltskin, but he cannot be so different. (He cannot have wholly forgotten her.) “Not jealous, are we?”

Gold tilts his head, studies her, a crease traced across his brow. He looks curious, as if he does not understand her reference (as if he does not know her at all), and Cora feels a shock of uneasiness fizzle inside of her. “You’ve always been rather transparent,” he observes after an instant. He doesn’t smile, but perhaps even in this strange guise, he knows she is an instant (a secret) away from killing him. “This August Booth and Emma Swan upset your conceptions of what the world should be, and so you’re willing to do anything at all to rid yourself of them.”

“Be careful what you imply,” she says, and she is tired of feeling a step behind, so there is pure, unadulterated threat in her voice.

Gold merely chuckles and turns half away from her, leaning on the cane that makes her lips tighten every time her attention is drawn to it. It is a reminder of one of her greatest mistakes—and the reason she can’t kill Gold, as tempting as that prospect is beginning to seem. “Implications are so vague.” He reaches out a long-fingered hand to straighten a few silver blades set out in an open velvet case. “Cases are built on, and won by, more specific proofs.”

“It’s not like you,” Cora says conversationally, wresting back hold of her confidence, “to bet on a losing horse—to so blatantly set yourself against me like this. I thought the sidelines were more your territory.” She narrows her eyes, lets the weightiness of another world’s lifetime imbue her voice with meaning. “You don’t have many allies in this town.”

“Yes, you’ve seen to that,” he agrees casually. He turns away from his wares and faces her directly, cane slanted to the side, hip cocked so that one shoulder is higher than the other. She has never seen him look so sure of himself, not around her. When he speaks, his voice is low, intent, almost sinister. “But I have one ally, and one is all I need.”

Cora freezes. Her eyes dart from his dangerous boldness to the blades he made a point of fingering to the cane he is emphasizing with his very stance. Hints. Reminders. Subtlety.

“Remember, dear, the smallest weapons are the most powerful,” Gold murmurs, and Cora swallows in shock. (In fear.)

“You know,” she breathes.

His eyes are almost black in the shadowed shop, large, fixed on her with such deliberate focus that Cora wants to back away. Instead, her spine stiffens, her chin cants arrogantly in the air. She refuses to show weakness, even if she is more thrown off, more disconcerted than she has ever been in this world.

“Always best to read the fine print before you commit yourself to a course of action,” Gold says in a normal volume that rings out unnaturally loud. He gives a half shrug, his hand flexing over the handle of his cane to remind her of what she’d once thought hidden there and what hadn’t been (isn’t now, either, because if it were, he’d never dare draw attention to it). “Really, my dear, all these years and still you resort to framing someone else for your own crimes? Don’t you think it’s time to try something new?”

She is still afraid (oh so afraid because if Rumplestiltskin wasn’t as misled as she’d been led to believe, then there is nothing protecting her from him), but she will not let him win. She will not let him realize that her blood is sluggish in her veins, that her thoughts are racing desperately, uselessly, that there is a pit of horrified realization opening up in the center of her hollow chest. And he is not a stranger anymore. If he remembers, if he knows, then he isn’t Mr. Gold. He’s Rumplestiltskin, and Rumplestiltskin is someone (has always been someone) Cora can handle.

And now, at that thought, she can move and breathe and think.

Her smile is slight, but it is whole and almost even real, and Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrow at the sight of it. “Oh, my darling, you’re not as invulnerable as you’d like to think you are. If _you_ know, it means your ally doesn’t, and that negates most of his help.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” he returns, glee and satisfaction and something blacker, more unsettling, racing like gold through his dark eyes. “But the world—even this world—has its own rules, and that’s what it follows. What’s mine…remains _mine_. So what’s it to be, Madame Mayor?”

He is threaded through with tension; she can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the tilt of his chin toward his chest. She can feel it in the air all around them, crackling with power and danger and energy she hasn’t felt in far, _far_ too long. It makes her smile, even through her uneasy fear, makes her smile and laugh at the small, lonely man standing before her.

“Rumple, darling, I don’t _need_ to come after you. I don’t need to do _anything_. After all, as you said, implications are vague, and what matters is what’s real. What’s here. _You_ gave the curse to _me_ , and now…” Her lips curve upward, pity and condescension and poison in a single smile. “Now _I’m_ the one with a child. And you’re the one alone.”

He covers his stricken expression almost instantly, but he is still left scrabbling for control, fighting to cover himself up with more layers of armor. It is too little too late, and she knows him oh so much better than he’s ever realized. Mr. Gold was an unknown entity with weaknesses only guessed and strengths only feared. But Rumplestiltskin is a man whose pains and desires and hopes were laid bare to her long ago.

Rumplestiltskin is a man who doesn’t even realize he’s never stood a chance.

“Demonstrate your little marks of rebellion,” Cora grants him permission with a shrug, clasping her hands in front of her. “When you tire of it—when you want to find your son—well, I’m sure we can work out an arrangement.” She turns to go, certain now that she has the last word, content with the hooded mask falling over his eyes to hide how much she’s affected him. Her hand is on the doorknob when she hears him take a step forward, and she pauses, just for an instant, hardly daring to hope that he’s come to his senses already.

But he has ever been stubborn.

And cunning.

“And what makes you think I’ll need _your_ help?” he asks, the same sneer on his face he wore when she held her heart in a box and told him farewell (a weak sneer, a smile that’s the only shield he has left to him). “What makes you think you even could, when your own daughter sets herself against you and looks to a child rather than you? But then, that’s not so hard to understand, I suppose. You know, considering your…condition.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, arches an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can come up with? A quip about lost hearts?”

He fashions an innocent expression. “It wasn’t my idea, if I recall correctly.” His innocent expression is shelved, replaced by neutrality, a cold, hollow look in shadowed eyes. “Still haven’t found it, I’m assuming.”

“You—” It’s harder to clamp her mouth shut over the furious question than it was to rip out the heart she hasn’t been able to find in twenty-eight years of searching.

And now, even neutrality is displaced as Mr. Gold is banished. His smirk, thin and vindictive, is pure Rumplestiltskin, and Cora wonders just how strongly she’d hate him if her heart still beat in her chest.

She almost goes for his throat. She almost kills him no matter that he alone knows where the knife is. She almost swallows her pride and attempts to seduce him.

Almost. But she is not without her own secrets, her own surprises…her own secret weapon stowed away in an inviolate hiding place. And he doesn’t know it, doesn’t even guess (wouldn’t believe even if she hinted at it).

The day is not as pleasant, when she leaves his shop, as it was hours earlier. But it is not as bad as it could be, either, and a reminder of that won’t hurt, so Cora cancels more appointments and heads to the hospital.

Rumplestiltskin may have hidden her heart, but she’s hidden his, too.

\---

The footsteps reverberate through the stone beneath her, around her, swallowing her up. The footsteps always do that, and she can’t figure out how or why such a small sound, such miniscule steps, can have such a huge effect. She supposes it doesn’t matter. This is the way things are, and if nothing else, at least the quiet hum through the wall at her back and the ledge serving as a bed beneath her and the floor where her feet would be if she didn’t have them drawn up so her knees huddle against her chest—well, at least the reverberating hum breaks the long, dull monotony of endless stretches of waiting, of existing (because living is denied them, shut away by the doors locked between them and the outside).

When the footsteps come, she is almost always curled up on the ledge. (She is almost always curled up on the ledge no matter what happens.) Even if she isn’t, she has time to take the few steps from the opposite corner where the sun shines in the morning and sit hurriedly on the ledge, draw up her legs, bow her head, present the picture of a tamed patient (a cowed prisoner).

The footsteps always stop down the hallway from her, pause and wait, and then there’s the snick of a tiny little window opening in the door, a snick that hisses through the air like a pinprick, sharp and edged and quick. Then, a moment later, the snick repeats as the window is closed, the reverberations of someone coming closer vibrates through the stone all around her, and they stop just in front of the locked door that seals her away from the world. Another snick (louder and closer and scarier) and the window of her door opens.

A few times, she has been brave enough to look up and over at the honey-dark eyes and the small, emotionless smirk on long, thin lips, but not often. It never lasts long, this silent observation from this woman whom even the stone walls fear. The window will close, the footsteps will continue on, growing fainter and heavier and slower, and then they will stop in front of the last door. This time, there will be no immediate snick; instead, there will be the quiet clicks and clinks of a lock being undone, a padlock being set aside, and then the snick, rusty with disuse, and another long period of silence, the sound of windows being closed, locks being done again, and finally, the footsteps will retrace their path until they fade from sound, from awareness, from existence for a long, ceaseless amount of time and they will go back to being alone and lost in their dark stone embrace.

She wraps her arms tighter around her legs, seeking extra warmth, trying not to think or feel anything beyond the hum, her hair hanging down around her face like a shield. She imagines the girl in the first cell, imagines her doing the same thing, though she knows she doesn’t. The girl in the first cell is quiet (except when she cries in the night, or when she sings in the mornings on particularly sunny days), but she always watches. She watches the window open and the honey-dark eyes look in and the thin lips smile and the window close again.

The girl in the first cell is brave, unbeaten, and she herself wishes she could be like that, but she can’t. She can look up once the window is open, catch a glimpse of whoever it is that checks to make certain they are still safely locked away, but she cannot bear to see that window being opened so effortlessly from the outside. Cannot bear, above all, to see it close again. She is tired of this cell, tired of stone walls, tired of huddling on a stone ledge without even a blanket or a pillow or warmth or the sound of another beating heart to comfort her.

Maybe this time, she thinks, she will be brave like the girl in the first cell. Maybe this time she will watch the window close, and maybe she will finally realize that freedom is unattainable for people like them (people who don’t remember ever _being_ free). But she will never know, doesn’t have time to talk herself into that sort of defeated bravery, because the footsteps don’t stop at the first cell. They keep walking, keep reverberating through the stone, and this has never happened before.

She looks up (she can’t help it) and she sees the window yanked open. No snick of quietly moved metal this time—instead, a quick thud of metal moved too quickly, rebounding off more metal. The honey-dark eyes are there, but they are cold and grim, and there is no smirk on the long, thin lips. They are pursed and unhappy, and frown lines are etched into the piece of face that is all she can see through this window to the outside world.

A shiver runs over and through her frame even though it is not cold. A horrible nauseous feeling writhes in her stomach, and she thinks she will be sick, thinks she will bend forward and lose everything right then, right in front of those eyes from the outside.

But the girl in the first cell starts humming, and so she grits her teeth and keeps staring and staring and staring and _staring_.

And then it’s over. The honey-dark eyes flash, the lips make a twitch as if the smirk will return, and the window closes (a thud instead of a snick, but at least it is gone). And she doesn’t even care that she saw it closed so easily (easily enough that surely the owner of those honey-dark eyes could open the doors if she wanted to, could free them without any effort at all, so _why doesn’t she_?), because the footsteps are moving on to the third cell and things are back to the way they should be.

Except they’re not.

The footsteps only move halfway to the last cell before they stop. There is silence. Horrible, unnatural, unusual silence. She finds herself holding her breath, waiting, waiting, waiting (and this shouldn’t be any different than every minute of every day, but it is, because there is someone _out there_ ). Finally, after an eternity, the footsteps begin again. But they don’t go to the last cell; they turn around and go back the way they came. Only one window opened, only one patient checked—an aberration.

This is not the way things are. This is different. This is strange.

The footsteps fade, and she is filled with strange, surging energy, as if the hum from the stone transmuted itself into restlessness to reverberate through her bones and her veins. She slides off the ledge, holds onto it while her legs balance her weight, and then she starts to pace. She keeps a hand on the wall, rubs her palm over the rough, textured stone. It creates a quiet, steady noise, more felt than heard. She doesn’t sing (she doesn’t talk), but she can thank the girl in the first cell for her timely humming in her own way, can reassure her that she is not alone. Maybe whoever is in the last cell hears, too; she isn’t sure. She’s never heard a noise from the last cell, never felt the slightest thrumming originating from movement or life in the cell farthest from the outside.

She paces, weak and unbalanced, but moving, moving, moving. Because things are different now. Things that have never happened before are happening and things that have always happened _haven’t_. So she moves and she breathes, in and out, more noises to chase away the silence. Eventually, a long time later, she hears a matching noise from the first cell and knows that the unbeaten girl is moving, too.

Because if one thing can change…then something else can change too.

And still, there is no sound from the last cell.

\---


	6. Into The Unknown

\---

_When Rumplestiltskin opened the door, the last person he expected to see on his doorstep was Milah. He supposed it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Things had been going too well. Bae was finally happy, Zoso had stopped trying to convince him to reveal the power he held, and Rumplestiltskin himself had actually begun to believe they were safe. So of course she would show up now, as beautiful as ever, eyes colder than he remembered, her pirate lover following in her steps. And of course, so much more alive than he’d been told she was._

_Rumplestiltskin was powerful now, with strength far beyond the physical. Royalty had bowed before him—the Duke who had threatened Bae’s life with his draft had knelt at his feet and begged for his life. With the knife in his possession, Rumplestiltskin had only to say the word and Zoso could destroy the entire portside city they now called home. And yet, for all that power, for all he had done and endured and changed since Jones had stolen away Milah, Rumplestiltskin felt suddenly utterly small and weak and frail. Inferior._

_“Rumple,” Milah said, and she was strong and confident, and the pirate Captain (the feel of cold steel against his cheek, the glares of dozens of pirates at his back, the sheer helplessness that had weighted his stumbling steps) smirked at him from behind her. Abruptly, Rumplestiltskin knew with a surety he hated that his darkest, deepest suspicions about Milah’s complicity in her own kidnapping were all too true._

_And yet here she was._

_He closed his mouth, shook his head, straightened as much as he could while leaning on both his staff and the door. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely. He angled the door, determined not to let them pass. This was his life, his and Bae’s, and it was as near to perfect as he’d ever had, and he wouldn’t let her (back from the dead and bringing with her the vulnerability, the helplessness he’d left behind) ruin it. Not for any reason._

_“Not a very polite greeting,” the pirate said with an arched brow. “I was led to believe—”_

_“I don’t care!” Rumplestiltskin snarled. Control—control he’d been cultivating, trying so hard to keep himself in check so he wouldn’t have to see that disappointment in Bae’s eyes ever again—was slipping away from him. All he could think of was the fact that Bae would be back from spending time with his friends (and he_ had _friends here, something Rumplestiltskin never failed to delight in for him) and he would see his mother and he would know Rumplestiltskin had lied to him. His son would find out that he’d been a coward and left his wife, Bae’s_ mother _, to pirates so he could come back to Bae. And if he could find that out, then who was to say that Milah wouldn’t spill the whole sordid tale of how Rumplestiltskin had smashed his own ankle rather than die on the battlefield? (Who was to say he wouldn’t lose the last of Bae’s love?)_

_The life he’d constructed for them both, his son and him, the life that had brought him contentment and security, that kept them safe and far away from any battlefields—it was all crumbling around him. The door he kept between himself and Milah seemed too thin, too ineffectual._

_“There’s nothing for you here,” he said, his voice just barely steady. “Now leave.”_

_“Rumple!” Milah scolded him. He couldn’t help but flinch. It didn’t matter that he was standing in a two-story house full of comforts and riches, with spools of gold piled near the new, polished spinning wheel; he might as well still have been in their small cottage that had once been home. “I know this is a shock, but…well, Killian and I heard about your good fortune. We—I—wanted to come see Baelfire, see how you were both getting on.”_

_Rumplestiltskin scowled at her, refusing to be drawn in by her voice, by the sound of her calling him by a name no one called him anymore. “Interesting that this newfound concern for_ my _son came only after you learned of my change in fortune.”_

_“Suspicious, aren’t you?” Killian Jones asked. He reached out a hand and pushed the door open, causing Rumplestiltskin to stagger backward, holding onto his staff with a white-knuckled hand—not because he was off-balance, but because he needed something to hold onto, something real to ground him and keep him from calling the dagger to him. It was oh so incredibly tempting to summon Zoso, feel the magic crackle in the air around him, watch smoke envelop the woman he’d once thought he’d love forever (the woman who’d whispered her love into his ear; the woman who’d scorned him and mocked him before the entire village), leave her and the pirate as rats or snails or something else equally inferior, scrounging for life from the dirt._

_But Bae wouldn’t approve._

_So Rumplestiltskin strangled his staff and watched Milah and Jones stride into the receiving hall as if they owned the place. Jones moved to the hearth, leaned against the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest. He eyed the piles of gold with an avaricious gleam in his calculating eyes, but his hands never moved far from the sword on his belt. Milah, on the other hand, stood almost awkwardly in the middle of the room and openly looked at the rugs on the floor, the tapestries hanging from the walls, the curtains Bae had left open before leaving to run the docks with his friends. This was the life Milah had always wanted, Rumplestiltskin knew. The life she’d thought they could have no matter how bad things got. Always she’d believed that if they’d moved, if he’d walked straighter, if she’d drunk another mug of ale (if he was a different man altogether), they’d be able to have this life for themselves, as if it would magically appear to those who tried and wanted the hardest._

_But nothing ever just magically happened without there being a price to pay. Rumplestiltskin had learned that early, and he wasn’t liable to forget it. Another town (where her own scorn for him would have branded him a coward anyway), an extra bit of pretended confidence (that would have shown as fake as any bravery he might have tried to achieve), another mug of ale (that drained more of the few coins he’d managed to eke out of the resentful villagers)…none of it would have mattered._

_She still wouldn’t have loved him._

_“What do you want, Milah?” he asked her, quietly. He wanted to shrink in on himself, duck his head and look to the floor. He wanted to pull out the knife and let Zoso draw darkness around him and watch fear change the bold pair before him into nothing more than shaking cowards (like him). All he did, though, was stay still, standing near the door, watching them both with steady eyes that gave away none of his thoughts. He’d become quite good at hiding away his pain in the past years._

_“It was Baelfire’s fifteenth birthday not too long ago,” she said, as if he didn’t know. As if he were the one who’d always had to be reminded of the special days. As if she really cared. “I thought it was time to see him. Let him know what really happened to me.”_

_“Yes, what_ really _happened.” Rumplestiltskin felt his lips twist into a cruel, mirthless smile. “A tale I apparently didn’t know myself. Though I think it’s fairly self-explanatory at the moment.”_

_“I know I shouldn’t have left without saying anything,” Milah began, and incredibly, she did look almost ashamed. But then, she’d always been so very good at manipulating him for her own purposes._

_Rumplestiltskin shook his head, threw up a forestalling hand. “I don’t care,” he told her softly. “You made your choice,” he cast a venomous glare Jones’s way, to which the pirate only smirked, “and now, I’m done. Bae and I are happy here, and I’m not going to let you ruin that. You and your…associate…can be on your way.”_

_“Please, Rumple, I just want to see him—”_

_“You should have thought of that before you snuck away and left him without a mother!” Rumplestiltskin snarled, and his control was slipping, ripped away from him. He scrabbled wildly for it, closed his eyes, took deep breaths, but it was too late. Years of confusion and hurt and resentment, buried somewhere hard and dark and deep, lashed outward. “You left him,” he repeated, voice a ragged hiss. “Only a child, and you abandoned him. Well, I’m not going to let that happen again. He thinks you died, thinks his mother was taken from him, and he’s going to continue thinking that. A much better choice than him knowing his mother didn’t care about him at all.”_

_“A boy’s got a right to his mother,” Jones interjected casually. “Don’t you think he should be given the choice? After all, we came back for him.”_

_Zoso was in the room. Rumplestiltskin could sense him, menace oozing down out of the beams of the ceiling, up from the threads of the rugs and tapestries, the length of the gold. He could feel him, easing inside his own frame, lending strength and bravery and power to his slender bones, making him feel taller and bolder, breathing in the hum of magic-coated power. Milah and Jones were oblivious, sly cunning in the pirate’s eyes, dwindling discomfort in Milah’s. They stood there, confident in their power, thinking themselves so safe, confronting a coward they thought so much less than themselves. They were so very, very wrong._

_“A boy has a right to his father, too,” Rumplestiltskin murmured, silky danger wrapping his voice in pointed meaning. “A living father, not one dead on the battlefield—isn’t that right, Milah?”_

_She flinched away from him._

_(She’d never done that before.)_

_Rumplestiltskin felt, suddenly, invincible. Invulnerable. For once, he wasn’t the one who’d be left hurting and alone. For once, he could come out on top._

_“But better a dead parent than a coward,” he finished, languorously, slowly, teasing each word, drawing it out. He didn’t move, but he wanted to circle her, wanted to close in on her as if she were prey. Turnabout was fair play, so they said, and this was the first time he’d ever been on an even playing field with her. With Jones. With the world. He kept it secret, his power and Zoso, kept it hidden, because that was what Bae wanted and because it kept them safe, but now…now he didn’t have to hide._

_“You didn’t come for Bae,” he accused, softly, gently, the accusation making itself without any help from him. “You came because you heard about power. Riches. Everything you ever wanted.”_

_“I wanted adventure!” Milah snapped, daring to take several confrontational steps toward him. “I wanted to see the world, and you were too afraid to step foot outside the village that hated us! Killian and I—do you have any idea what we’ve seen together? The places we’ve gone? The things we’ve held in our hands?”_

_“How nice for you,” Rumplestiltskin snapped, shocked at the sheer ferocity sizzling inside him, making him bare his teeth and gnash forward. The single, lurching step he took made Milah retreat a step and Jones start up from his casual pose. “Now, if you’re smart, you’ll go back to those places and never bother coming here again.”_

_“You know what,” Jones said suddenly, “he’s right.”_

_Milah turned to look at her lover, and even Rumplestiltskin found himself frowning at the man. It seemed too easy, this victory, too simple. But maybe, he thought, that was only because nothing in his life had ever come easy before. He wasn’t used to winning._

_Jones flashed a friendly smile (false and overly bright, rubbing at Rumplestiltskin’s self-control like cloth against sores) and spread his hands out to show he held no weapon. “We came, we tried, but you have your own life here. Understandable. I mean, you have everything you need—why tamper with a good thing?”_

_The air hummed and writhed with magic. Zoso bristled with impatience, offense, dark intentions, barely held back by Rumplestiltskin’s lack of commands. Rumplestiltskin himself stared at the pirate with narrowed eyes. Was Jones trying to make a point? Prove that Rumplestiltskin would let Milah walk away again without fighting for her? If so, it was a worthless point, Rumplestiltskin thought with a sneer. Milah wasn’t worth fighting for, but Bae…Bae he’d fight for a thousand times over, even if it meant stealing a dozen cursed knives and controlling a hundred Dark Ones seething with evil and dark magic._

_“Leave,” Rumplestiltskin growled._

_Jones gave an abbreviated bow and strode past Rumplestiltskin. Milah made to follow her lover but stopped just beside her husband. (His hands tightened over his staff to the point where his bones creaked under the strain because once she had been his wife to hold and touch and love and now she was only a dangerous stranger.)_

_“Rumple,” she said, so soft and gentle, and it had been so long since he’d heard her sound like this. So long since she’d ever said his name in that tone of voice. So long ago, and even then it had all been a lie, hadn’t it? Just a pretense, a ploy, and maybe it still hurt, still played with something aching and lonely and_ wanting _deep inside him, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anything except Bae. And Zoso, because Zoso was the only way to keep Bae. The only way to ensure life remained worthwhile._

_“Rumple,” she said, eyes wide and luminous, the rich, vibrant colors of her clothing gleaming with the reflection of sunlight playing off gold thread. “I am sorry. I was the coward for leaving without telling you. But…that night in the tavern, I fell in love with Killian. How could I stay when he was everything I wanted?”_

_Fury flooded his veins, indignation suffused his skin, anguish subsumed his thoughts. But Bae would be home soon. Bae would look at him. Rumplestiltskin didn’t want him to stare at him with that horror, that disappointment, in his eyes (the look he’d worn when backing away on the grass in front of their cottage). He didn’t want to look at his son and see there reawakened that growing fear he’d borne in the months they’d lived with Zoso in that tiny village._

_He wanted Bae to look at him and be_ proud _. Be happy. He wanted his son to love him with no reservations._

_So he held all his magic and his rage and his hurt inside—kept his grip tight and dominant on Zoso—and he stared straight ahead at nothing._

_“Get out,” he commanded her, a whisper that transformed into a shout (just like a spinner transforming into a man with power). “Get out!”_

_She left. The door shut behind her and the man that was so much more, so much better, than Rumplestiltskin himself (the pirate who’d left him trembling and filled with self-loathing). Zoso stepped outside Rumplestiltskin, taking strength and boldness and cold independence with him, and alone, Rumplestiltskin crumpled to the floor. His staff clattered onto the rug beside him, laid there so uselessly._

_“Any orders for me, Master?” Zoso asked, temptation and challenge and invitation all at once, and Rumplestiltskin wasn’t strong on his own._

_“Don’t ask me that right now,” he ordered hoarsely. “Leave me alone—in this room for an hour,” he added, having long since learned that it was important to be specific in his commands to the Dark One._

_“As you command,” Zoso said, shrugging, as if he couldn’t account for Rumplestiltskin’s poor decisions._

_“Wait!” Rumplestiltskin struggled to his feet, his staff once more in hand, bearing him up as he leaned so very heavily on it. “How did Jones and Milah find out about us? About you?”_

_Zoso arched his brows. “Who’s to say they did? You’re rich now, Rumplestiltskin; that’s a change in fortune.”_

_That wasn’t all of it. There was something in what Zoso wasn’t saying. But he was tired and hurting and he didn’t want to wade through all the double-meanings and subtle implications and unsaid truths that Zoso couched his words in. So he just shook his head and waved his hand, banishing the Dark One from the room._

_Bae would be back any minute. He’d be walking through the door, tall and youthful and energetic and_ happy _. He smiled so much now, laughed and teased and took care of Rumplestiltskin. He was learning to ride and to read and to move in powerful, elite circles. He was smart and insightful, able to help gain them contacts and buyers in surrounding cities. He was safe._

_It was everything Rumplestiltskin wanted. It was. But once, Rumplestiltskin had wanted something else. Once, he’d thought he’d been loved. He’d thought he’d be loved forever. He’d thought he would have someone to take him in her arms and hold him and whisper sweet nothings in the night and be there to help him raise their son. Once, there had been two people comprising his universe._

_But she’d left. She hadn’t died, hadn’t been kidnapped, hadn’t been mistreated—she’d walked away of her own free will. She’d chosen someone else and left Bae and him and she didn’t care. She’d left more times than he could count; today was only the latest in a long line of her exits. He’d forgotten—he couldn’t remember if they’d all hurt as much as this one did._

_His anguish, his betrayal, all of it boiled up inside him, demanded a release. Before he could stop himself, before he could try to hold himself back, he let out a cry of rage, of hurt, and his staff was colliding with glass and ornaments. Gold spools toppled from their orderly piles, littered costly rugs, wealth scattered at his feet, mingled with sharp-edged shards and stained china. Chaos poured from him, touched all around him, and still it wasn’t enough. He screamed again, squeezed his eyes shut to keep from shedding tears over a woman he’d once loved, and he broke and destroyed and shattered until there was nothing left but a weak man huddled in the midst of scattered pieces._

_He was so distraught that it took him two hours before he realized Bae had never come home._

\---

August is scared. He thought he’d been scared before, when David had come with his badge and his questions and later a warrant for his arrest. He thought he’d been scared when he’d been locked in this cell and realized that he was a sitting duck for the Wicked Queen. But he was wrong, because now… _now_ he’s scared.

Emma has signed her soul away—well, a favor, but that’s close enough where the Spinner is concerned—and now the dreaded Rumplestiltskin himself is acting as August’s defense attorney—for reasons he won’t disclose. Oh, he can talk all he wants about getting in the mayor’s way and defying whatever her plans are, but August remembers Rumplestiltskin, and the one thing you could always count on about Rumplestiltskin was that he never gave his motives away. He always kept his intentions to himself and let others guess at his goals. And he always won, in the end, always came out on top, with more invariably gained from his deals than he’d given.

So August sits in his cell and stares at the donut and coffee David gave him before leaving with Emma to hunt down proof he’s sure they won’t find, and he almost can’t think past the fear paralyzing him. Trapped between the Heartless Queen and the Spinner—not a good place to be and worse because he doesn’t know whether he’s dealing with Rumplestiltskin or Mr. Gold (though he’s not so sure that one is any less dangerous than the other).

“Don’t think so hard, Mr. Booth—we wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

August jerks upright, the thin blankets shifting beneath him. Mr. Gold stands across the room, that smirk August had finally stopped having nightmares about plastered across his face, his hands resting on the cane that’s so like and unlike the one he possessed in their old world.

“Mr. Gold,” he says. This is the third day he’s been in jail, the third meeting with Gold, and August still feels like that tiny, wooden boy who cowered underneath a table while his father argued and wept and begged the Spinner for his son’s life. It’s not a comforting feeling.

“You’re looking worried,” Mr. Gold observes, stepping forward and setting down his briefcase (and August wonders why he brings all the paperwork when he has yet to look at any of it) on the table placed near the cells. “I’d advise against it at the trial—speaks a bit too much toward guilt.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” August accuses. He is horrified as soon as the words leave him, aghast and certain he’s invited cold displeasure on himself, but Mr. Gold only grants him a smile more amused than sinister.

“Enjoying preparing for a murder trial that has rather a lot of evidence stacked up against my client?” he asks, and in his mouth, the question becomes ridiculous even though August knows he is not imagining the sharp vitality, the bright interest, that burns in the lawyer’s dark eyes during their meetings. (Rumplestiltskin was always so good at making him doubt himself; Rumplestiltskin was the first one who convinced _him_ to believe in himself.)

“Enjoying getting back at your enemy,” August corrects, fiercely clamping down on his anger so that his own statement sounds merely an observation. “You did say you wanted to do what you could to foil her.”

“Well,” Mr. Gold shrugs and waves a careless hand. “Good things come to those who wait.”

August swallows back his fear, gathers up what bit of courage he possesses (glances toward the door to make sure Emma isn’t there, come early for her morning visit), and says, “What about me, then? I’ve been waiting a long time for you to do as you promised.”

Rumplestiltskin had made him exactly one promise, long ago, kneeling to peer into a small boy’s eyes, gentleness in an angular face that had been the stuff of Pinocchio’s nightmares. He’d promised that he would help him when he needed it most. He’d promised that he would come for him. He’d promised him that if Pinocchio (August, but here, staring once more into the deal-maker’s eyes, the distinction seems less important) did what his father told him to, Rumplestiltskin would ensure that Pinocchio was reunited with his father. He’d promised, and yet still August has yet to see Geppetto.

He’d promised and yet August is still locked away in a prison cell, isolated by his knowledge of the last world, by his time in this world.

So he asks (accuses), and he waits for an answer (a confirmation).

Mr. Gold doesn’t give him anything.

He raises his eyebrows, opens his briefcase, looks up and meets August’s desperate stare. “Patience, Mr. Booth. Murder trials aren’t wrapped up overnight; we still have a ways to go.”

August lets out a breath, his eyes sliding closed as he dares to turn his back on Gold (a pawnbroker, an attorney; not a Spinner, not the infamous deal-maker).

“But don’t worry,” Mr. Gold adds, his voice too low, too cadenced, too sedate, to be Rumplestiltskin’s. “There’s still time—time for me to work a little magic.”

The blood freezes in August’s veins, gone thick and sluggish as tree sap. His eyes snap open but he cannot turn, cannot whirl to face the man behind him and search once more for the monster. He can only stand still, immobile, as trapped as if he is once more wood, deprived of magic and movement. Stagnant and dead, because what is wood that has been cut down but dead and useless to all but a master carver (or a deadly, consuming fire)?

“Now,” Mr. Gold (or is it Rumplestiltskin?) says, his tone shifting (like personalities, merged and mingled together), brisk and businesslike. “Shall we go over your testimony one more time?”

He is there an hour, and in that hour, August remembers nothing of what he says. He stares, when he can finally bring himself to move and perch on the edge of the cot; he stares so hard that he is surprised there is not a visible mark on Gold’s skin from the force of his gaze, a brand seared into his skin from the force of August’s desperate need to _know_.

He is alone here and there is no one else, and Emma is just as removed from him as whoever his father is in this town. But if Mr. Gold is Rumplestiltskin (if _Mr. Gold_ remembers fairies and vindictive whales and wood that could come to life), then there is someone else. Someone to talk to, to ask his questions, to give him answers (to share this terrible burden). But Mr. Gold discusses laws and testimonies and witness statements and DNA results. He doesn’t mention magic again, or spells or Queens with their hearts missing or enchanted forests. Mr. Gold smiles more than Rumplestiltskin did, and he says less; he is less confrontational, more manipulative, and he keeps his distance, never prowling forward to throw anyone off-balance with his nearness. He listens to the sheriff (the shepherd, the Prince, the King), when he’s present, with respectful courtesy and does not mock him with fancy titles and flamboyant gestures.

And yet he had said _magic_. Said it with that ironic twist to his voice. Said it like a secret. Like a joke. Like a lie planted in the truth (or a truth nestled among lies).

When he gives a nod in farewell and says, “Until tomorrow, Mr. Booth,” and walks away, August is left just as much in the dark as he was before. He is unsure whether it was Mr. Gold or Rumplestiltskin who told him goodbye, and he _hates_ that, but it gives him some kind of comfort too, because that’s the way it always was with Rumplestiltskin.

Besides, it doesn’t matter whether he remembers or not, not really, because he will not let August know even if he does, and he is still helping in a way even if he does _not_ remember, so what does it matter? Rumplestiltskin is not the confidante August needs (even if he is the one he wants, if only to beg for his father), and August has the companion he needs when Emma strides into the station and immediately crosses to stand before him and offer him a bag full of lunch, still hot enough to steam when he pulls it open.

“Emma,” he says, and smiles because she is here. Her expression isn’t encouraging, but in this world, he takes what he can get, and at least she’s talking to him now. At least she didn’t run out of town the minute she realized he’d brought her to Storybrooke to meet Neal’s son.

“August,” she says, then stops and looks around. “Where’s David?”

“I thought he was with you.”

“He was, but he said he was taking his lunch break with a friend—I assumed he meant you.”

August raises his brows. “He arrested me, Emma; that doesn’t exactly make us friends.”

“Right,” she says, but she looks confused, and maybe it’s because she doesn’t like being surprised, but August hopes it has more to do with her feeling a connection to the man who is her father. He hopes she is eager to spend time with the sheriff, to get to know him better, to be able to call him friend. (He hopes for the same with his own father, but knows there is little chance of it coming true.)

“So what’s the news?” August asks to smooth the crease from her brow. “Can the DA help us?”

Emma grimaces. “He says he wants to help but until we can find you an alibi or some other evidence, there’s nothing he can do.”

“Figures,” August comments. He opens the bag of lunch she brought and offers Emma a wrapped sandwich; she accepts it half-heartedly. “Anything else?”

“Aside from the local paper making you sound like some kind of Jack the Ripper for mechanics? Not much. Graham couldn’t find anything up near the well, David hasn’t been able to dig up anyone who might have seen anything that happened that night to put blood around your bike, and we’re running out of ideas. I’ll tell you one thing, though, the mayor sure isn’t pulling any punches.” Emma frowns down at the sandwich in her hands as if she can’t remember where it came from. “Apparently she’s got her fingers in just about every pie in town, and she’s willing to do pretty much anything to make sure your trial gets pushed through as fast as is legal—faster, actually, if you ask me.”

Sighing, August tosses his own sandwich back into the bag untouched, his appetite gone. “Doesn’t surprise me,” he mutters. He’d never met the Wicked Queen, not in person, but he’d heard enough horror stories of her to know she’s worse in person. This is her town and he and Emma are upsetting her perfect little world; he should have known she would strike back as quickly and ruthlessly as she could. He’s only surprised she’s still pretending to follow laws, having assumed she would be more willing to exercise her own power no matter what others thought. Maybe her decades in this world have changed her.

“I’m sorry, August,” Emma says, her face tight with worry, her voice quiet. An instant later, she shrugs and strides forward a few steps, as if to distance herself from the sober moment. “Apparently, Mr. Gold’s help isn’t worth the favor I bought it with.”

“Emma,” August says, and his cautious tone alerts her. She peers at him through the bars of his cell. “You do know…” He searches for the right word, determined to make her listen to him. “You do realize that Mr. Gold’s not the kind of man you cheat, right? You promised him a favor and, unfortunately for us, that means you have to deliver.”

Emma lets out a scoffing breath, her lips twisted into a smile. “What happened to the guy who told me that leaving town was the same as leaving obligations behind—easy, quick, and guilt-free?”

August restrains a grimace, fakes a smile. Their past in this world hardly seems to matter, not when it was only counting down days until they could find Storybrooke and begin their work to break the curse. “Yeah, I know, but…you have to be careful, Emma. Mr. Gold’s dangerous—more dangerous than you know.”

“Uh-huh.” Emma is silent for a moment, then she shakes her head, tosses her sandwich on the desk, and moves to stand just on the other side of the cell. Her gaze is direct, assertive, and enough to make August squirm with uneasiness. “All right, spill,” she demands. “When have you been here before?”

“What?” August doesn’t even have to fake his surprise.

She rolls her eyes, grips the bars between strong hands. “It’s pretty obvious, August—the mayor’s kid you were making eyes at in the diner, Mr. Gold, the reason the mayor seems to hate you so much, and don’t think I didn’t hear you asking about someone our first week in town.” She tilts her head, studies him with narrowed eyes. “Come on, who is he?”

“Who?” August asks, but his voice is too hoarse, his mouth too dry, to make the question convincing.

“The man you’re looking for—older, white hair, maybe an Italian accent?” At his incredulous look, Emma sighs exasperatedly. “I’m not deaf, you know—I was sitting at the table when you asked Ruby about him. Let me help, August! I’m good at finding people; it is my job, you know.”

The words are so heavy with hidden irony that August feels the sudden urge to burst out laughing. She wants to help him find his father, but she doesn’t realize she’ll have to dig through layers of a world-destroying curse to find the man who was so lonely for a child he carved one into life.

But she offers. She _wants_ to help him, and that both gratifies and shames him.

Emma sighs, leans her brow against the bars, never taking her eyes off him. “Come on. You helped me find out what happened to Neal—that’s the only reason I’m here, after all, a favor for a favor. So let me do something for you. Who is this man? Tell me, and I promise you I can find him.”

The dismissive breath he releases surprises even August. It is more bitter than he thinks he is, or thinks he should be (because maybe Rumplestiltskin and Geppetto and Jiminy expected too much of him, but at least they didn’t send him here entirely unprepared). “I’m not sure I want to find him,” he says, slumping back on the narrow cot to keep from having to look into Emma’s eyes. She has looked for her parents obsessively, continuously, and she expects the worst of them, but still she looks. While he…he knows his father loved him, knows exactly where he lives, and yet he cannot face him and see a man who expected the best from him. That is the difference between him and Emma, August thinks; she is brave and prefers to face the truth no matter what it turns out to be, but he is a coward who prefers to lie to himself to avoid an unpleasant truth.

The comparison depresses him, but it also provides him an excuse. So he shrugs as if it doesn’t matter (a pretense she will see through without even trying). “I think…I think he might be my father. My real father.”

If he were writing this scene, typing it from imagination, he would surely take pains to describe Emma’s shock, her stunned silence, but he is living it rather than creating it, so he stares at his hands, stares at the bars beyond them, and does not look at her. He is telling the truth, but he is lying, too, and that is what he does to her every day and one day, he thinks, she will look at him and see the wrong thing in his eyes and she will, finally and irrevocably, realize how much he has betrayed her. How much he has protected her from. (Both, either, he is not sure anymore.)

“Look,” she says softly, adjusting her stance, rubbing her fingers over the bars between them (impenetrable, but puny compared to the world that truly separates them). “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…do you know what the odds are that _your_ father and _my_ son would be in the _same_ small town?”

And even though he is on trial for murder, locked up in a town torn between the conflicting forces of the Heartless Queen and the Spinner, August feels a real, genuine smile curve his lips upward. “So he’s ‘your son,’ huh? You’re claiming him now?”

“What?” Emma makes a face. “N-no. No. It’s just…” She softens, enough to make August’s chuckle turn into a wistful smile. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah,” August replies, and at least this is not a lie. “He is.”

“That’s right.” Emma straightens, arms crossed over her chest as she stares him down. He is not afraid to meet her eyes now that the topic has switched to ‘her son’ and away from his father. “Henry said he was spending the afternoons with you.”

August raises his brows. “He told you that?”

“Yeah. Why?” “Nothing.” He shakes his head, settles his back more comfortably against the cold stone wall. “He told me it was supposed to be a secret, though. Said his mom wouldn’t like it if she found out.”

“August!” Emma exclaims, eyes wide, mouth pursed. “You’re sneaking around with a kid behind his mom’s back?”

“So are you!” he retorts defensively, satisfied when she has no answer to that. “Come on,” August adds, persuasively, flashing his suggestive smile. “I’m practically the kid’s uncle.”

“Yeah, the sneaky, dishonest uncle who teaches him to swear behind his mother’s back,” she mutters, but she laughs after she says it, and August laughs with her, something loosening in his chest.

They are quiet then, their sandwiches forgotten, the station around them quiet and, strangely enough, welcoming. They have never had a home, either one of them, but he is here and so is she, and so they don’t need one.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says impulsively when he sees that determined, weary shadow back in her eyes, her brow once more creasing as she is reminded of his place _within_ the cell. He stands, places his hands over hers around the bars, warmth against coolness, a contrast that suits her well.

“How do you know?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper, and it is her turn to avoid his eyes, her gaze instead locked on something at the level of his throat, maybe the pendant of the whale he still wears. She manages to pull up a brittle smile. “And if you say it’s because you have faith, I will hit you.”

“All right.” He chuckles and changes his answer, steps closer to the bars so that she will forget them and focus on him instead. He has watched over her all her life, but he has not been _with_ her all her life (and in some ways, they are still strangers), and sometimes they don’t need to look at each other. Sometimes they need to just close their eyes and listen to the other’s voice because that is what they know. He has listened to her from the time her voice was a child’s high-pitched innocent tone garbled over the phone to the days when he said hello to a self-possessed young woman; she has heard him evolve from a child pretending a confidence he didn’t have to a cocky teenager with his voice switching registers to the lost, stubborn, desperate adult he is now.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says, slowly, letting his voice sink in, letting his own eyes fall closed so he can really _listen_ to her own reply, “because we’re here. We’re together. And that’s enough. We’re not alone; we’re family. The rest will see to itself.”

“Thanks, August.” If he were looking at her, he would see a strong woman, full of swagger and bravado and quick bursts of compassion. But he listens instead and he hears the hint of tears lodged in the middle of her words, the vulnerability fraying the edges, the thick inner strength keeping it all together.

“For what?” he asks, because sometimes he just needs to hear the words (pretend things are as simple as fixing her problems with a phone-call and a distant promise; pretend his own troubles can be lessened simply because he has done as he’s supposed to and checked up on her).

“For being here,” she says, a half-answer. For being here now, but also for being there her whole life.

He was supposed to do more. He was supposed to _stay_ with her. But this world is different and he failed and he wasn’t strong or smart enough. But…but maybe he didn’t fail completely. He didn’t do _everything_ , but maybe he did _enough_.

“Well,” he whispers, “thanks for being here now.”

She’s the savior, and she is Emma. He always thought the first was the more important. Now, however, he thinks it is the second that matters the most.

\---

Ruby stares at the booth in the back of the diner. It looks just as it always has: faded beige tablecloth over stained tabletop; ketchup and mustard bottles, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, all shoved into the corner. It’s dimly lit this late at night, and the shadows mingle with the reflection of what little light there is bouncing off the metal surfaces. It’s a sight she’s seen a million times, a setting so familiar she dreams it, a place so ingrained into her consciousness that she has almost given up hope of ever escaping it.

But it’s empty.

That last booth, closest to the entrance from the bed and breakfast, from the back door—it’s the booth Billy and she always sat in to laugh away the evening hours.

It’s also the booth August likes to sit in.

No one has sat in it for almost a week now.

Ruby’s lost count of how many times she’s lost herself in staring at that empty booth, alive with memories. She’s lost count of how many times she’s pinched herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming this all up. She’s lost count of the number of tears she’s shed.

She always used to wish things would change. She wasted whole years of her life making plans to move out, to leave Storybrooke, to travel to Boston and make her mark on the big city. But change, she thinks now, is not at all what it’s cracked up to be. If she knew that change meant Billy would be gone (taking his shy smiles and his gentle touches and his wolf-themed gifts with him), and August would be in a cell (his stories and his good-humored flirtations and his teasing disappeared behind a hollow mask), she would gladly live the same day over and over again, just so long as that back booth isn’t empty anymore and she doesn’t feel so bereft and guilty.

It’s not her fault and there’s no reason to be guilty, of course, she knows that, but…but she does anyway. Because Billy has loved her forever and August is her friend and she laughed with them both and did not know that one would come at the expense of the other.

“Don’t forget what you’re doing,” Granny mutters from behind her, and on any other night, Ruby would chafe under the direction, but things have been different lately and now she can hear the undertone of tenderness beneath her grandmother’s prodding reminder.

She takes the coffeepot in hand and swerves around the counter, approaches the only occupied table with a smile glued on more firmly than her bright lipstick, acting as armor and disguise at once. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks. She doesn’t sound cheerful, but she sounds polite, and that’s better than the mayor and her lackey should have any right to expect.

“Nothing for me,” Cora says firmly, dabbing her lips with a napkin and setting it over her plate.

“Just the coffee,” her companion remarks without even bothering to look up at her.

Every Wednesday, the mayor and the newspaper editor meet for a late dinner. Every Wednesday, Ruby watches them eat their meals silently, coldly, hardly looking at each other, barely saying a word. She’s not quite sure why they make a point of meeting for dinner (has searched in vain for any hint of a hand-off under the table), but she hates the nights they come. Most everyone else avoids the diners on Wednesday nights, and Ruby is left with only her thoughts for company, topping off their coffee and running to the kitchen to get whatever spice the mayor decides will complement whatever meal she orders—always something different, some combination she’s never tried before, her taste for variety standing in direct contrast to Spencer’s habit of always ordering the same steak and potatoes.

But Spencer is taking the last few sips of his coffee and Cora is placing her knife and fork neatly atop her mostly empty plate, and Ruby can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that she only has to tolerate their presence for a moment or two longer. She retrieves their separate checks, places them on the corner of their table, and lets Granny deal with taking their money. She feels a tiny bit of the tension coiled within her start to ease as she busies herself picking up their used dishes.

She’s not quite sure what it is that catches her eye, some sixth sense making her look up and glance to the door where Cora and Spencer are walking toward their vehicles. They are still in the courtyard, backlit by the streetlamps, and Ruby frowns when she sees a shorter, furtive man hurry up to them. The mayor and the newspaper editor rarely stop for anyone; they are town officials, well aware of their own importance, and even for her own daughter, Cora never deviates from her routine. But now, on a regular Wednesday evening (ordinary save for that empty booth at Ruby’s back), they come to a stop, shoulder to shoulder as they face the man confronting them.

Ruby sets the plates down on the counter, takes her washrag in hand, and moves toward the door, absently rubbing at a table with the rag in case any of the three outside should decide to look back toward her.

It’s Sidney Glass. Ruby recognizes him, remembers glimpses of him scuttling from alleyway to alleyway ahead of David’s usual patrol routine, begging for handouts from the nuns, always ready to offer some scheme for making money or ‘redeeming’ his reputation to whoever is foolish enough to catch his eye or stop to talk to him. He’s been homeless, jobless, for as long as Ruby can remember; it’s rumored that he once killed someone, that he served time in jail and is now an ex-felon, but Ruby’s never been quite sure how much truth there is to those stories.

Regardless, there is no reason for the mayor (proud and purposeful, stern and severe) or the editor of _Storybrooke Mirror_ (aloof and reserved, ruthless and cold) to give even a moment’s time to the beggar. So why are they talking to him, Spencer’s eyes narrowed, Cora’s hands clasped before her?

Sidney says something emphatic, his arms waving wildly, the brim of his hat pulled so low that it makes him look sinister. Cora shakes her head, her reply short and, Ruby guesses, sharp. Sidney steps forward, but Spencer is there, reaching out a hand and pushing the smaller, weaker man away.

Ruby tenses, ready to rush to his aid (though she’s never given much thought to him before), ready to call David and have him arrest the editor (because stopping him and the mayor might just be worth the mayor’s displeasure).

But Sidney cowers away and Spencer turns his back on him. He and Cora walk away, side by side, their expensive coats fluttering about their legs, leaving the impoverished, desperate ex-felon behind, his own raggedy clothes flapping in the wind and light rain. He stands there, alone, and for the first time, Ruby feels a spurt of pity for him. She darts into the kitchen, grabs the leftover sandwich she’d been saving for her own late dinner, wraps it in a bag, and then slips outside. She forgot her coat and the cold air bites deep, but she ignores it and hurries to the sidewalk fronting the diner.

Sidney is gone. She looks left and right, even sniffs the air a bit as if she could possibly track him that way, before she admits defeat. Whatever his business with Cora and Spencer, whatever made him so desperate as to approach them alone at night, Ruby will never know now. Perhaps it is just as well. Maybe he has grown tired of no one listening to him and determined to throw himself on the non-existent mercy of the two who were best-placed to help him. Maybe he didn’t realize who they were when he confronted them.

It’s probably nothing, Ruby concludes, and she reluctantly heads back into the warmth of the diner, setting the sandwich on the counter in order to take up the dirty dishes, turning to start toward the kitchen.

There’s someone standing by the back door. Someone familiar. Someone she knows.

Someone impossible.

The ceramic dishes tumble from Ruby’s suddenly nerveless arms and shatter at her feet, spattering food and silverware and sharp shards across the floor.

It’s Billy, standing near the back booth, framed by the back exit sign. He is gaunt and wavering on his feet, his clothes ragged and torn, his slight frame trembling with chills, and he drips a puddle of water on the floors Ruby mopped not two hours before. But he’s alive. He’s breathing and he’s here and he’s alive.

There is a scream building up in Ruby (a second one, because the echoes of her first are mixed with the mess on the floor), trapped in her throat, struggling to reach freedom. She is numb and frozen to the spot, afraid that the slightest move will make him disappear, as if he is only a mirage. And maybe he is, because he is dead, everyone knows that, and August is sitting in jail on trial for his murder, only how can there be a murder when Billy is standing there, sick and weak but obviously breathing and alive?

Ruby’s rambling thoughts come to a halt at the same instant as her body once more discovers the ability of movement.

She thinks Billy says her name, but there is a roaring in her ears, so she can’t be sure. She thinks he reaches out a thin hand to grasp for support from the booth she’s spent so much of the past days staring at, but it doesn’t matter because she’s running forward and throwing herself at him. He staggers at her weight, but the minute she has her arms around him, she is holding him up, supporting him. She is laughing and crying and babbling questions, and he looks dazed and lost as she helps him sit down (at _his_ booth, the usual).

“Granny!” Ruby interrupts herself to call out, and whatever emotion (a whole riot of them, tumbling and stumbling into each other) she has in her voice, Granny comes rushing out of the back.

“What is it, girl? There better be a fire—”

Ruby grins up at her grandmother’s speechlessness (a first, she thinks), her arm around Billy’s shoulder (because even now, she is afraid he might vanish if she doesn’t constantly reaffirm his reality), her mind and heart so full that she cannot focus on anything but Billy, here and well and _breathing_.

“You’re alive,” Granny states matter-of-factly. She smiles, then, a quick burst of relief and joy. “Guess I better call the sheriff and tell him to let out that poor boy he’s holding in jail.”

Billy frowns up at them, confusion all across his face. He is wet and tired and maybe sick, and he hasn’t stopped shivering no matter how close Ruby presses to him, and he hasn’t said anything (except maybe her name), but she doesn’t care. He’s alive, and that’s all that matters. (That’s more than she’s expected since she heard August was arrested.)

“You’re alive,” Ruby repeats, a whisper in Billy’s ear. She’s able, now, to say the words, to believe them, because Granny has said them, and Granny is nobody’s fool and not inclined to delusion. So she hugs Billy and splays her hands against his back to try to warm him and halt his chills. “You’re alive,” she whispers again.

He lets out a shuddering breath and dips his head forward to lean it on her shoulder, his weight sagging against her, and finally his arms come up to wrap around her in a loose hold. “Ruby,” he breathes out, and she smiles through her tears.

He’s alive, and change, she thinks, is definitely overrated.

\---

It feels different, walking through town now that time is moving once more. The curse is weakened by Emma’s presence, and now the days move forward and the citizens of Storybrooke react to new stimuli, make new decisions and find, to their surprise and even sometimes dismay, that they have to think for themselves, look at the people around them with new eyes and new thoughts and new feelings. It is unusual and startling after decades frozen in a single repeating day when the only thing that changed was Henry and whatever he effected immediately around him.

And so, because everything is changing, it’s different, walking through town now that he is no longer a hermit feared by everyone. Mr. Gold offered to help August because it gives him an in with Emma, allows him a foot in the door to the savior’s mind and doings, and also because the savior owing him a favor can be nothing but advantageous. (And because he promised a young boy, still accustoming himself to flesh and bone and sensation, that he would help him on the other side.) He hadn’t realized, then, that coming out of the shadows to publicly ally himself to a woman who’s winning more friends than she knows would make him more acceptable to the people of Storybrooke.

He’s not sure he likes it.

They don’t cross to the other side of the street anymore, and a few even dare to wish him a good morning. He doesn’t have to pretend to ignore cold glares and sidelong glances, doesn’t have to craft his own dismissive looks when he’s ignored, and though he doesn’t reply to those wishing him well, he finds that it is harder to remain aloof and rigid when they are cracking his veneer with their tentative acceptance.

It will not last, he knows. It will fade and die and turn once more into whispers and suspicions when it becomes public knowledge what happened to Billy Jaques. They will look at him, and they will begin to wonder why he offered to represent a stranger when he has never done so before (but none of them will wonder where or when he obtained his law degree, because the curse will not allow them to question), and they will decide that he had nefarious reasons for it and perhaps he was behind Billy’s disappearance, perhaps he is in league with the mayor, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. As clever as he thinks he is, as many possible futures as he has seen, he does not pretend to be able to guess what circuitous, sinister schemes they will come up with on his behalf.

But still, for the moment, he is not shunned by everyone in town. For the moment, they smile and nod their greetings and pass him by, as if he is one of them. As if he is not the villain they all fear somewhere deep in the back of their minds. As if they could ever drop their hypocrisy and their stark, easy morals (free of complications or shades of gray or hungry sons about to be stolen to water a battlefield with blood) long enough to see him as anything more than a threat.

He doesn’t mind. It’s what he’s used to, and it’s the way it is, but he does not like this time of in-between, when they look at him this way. It makes him feel and think and _want_ , and that is all impossible for him. He had it once, with his son, and that was stolen from him, ripped away prematurely when he was too weak and slow to catch hold of him. He had it again, with a princess who was braver than any warrior and kinder than any fairy, but that ended too, because he was afraid and hurt and angry and because he has never been able to turn away from temptation.

So he does his best to ignore the small acts of kindness. He walks forward, straight ahead, his cane tapping against the asphalt and concrete, and he chooses not to see the gestures and the greetings. Only from the sheriff will he accept anything, because David needs him (even though he does not realize it yet) and because he has always treated Mr. Gold exactly the same (no matter whether he was hated or accepted by the town). Only from the savior will he bring himself to reach out on his own, because Emma is important (more important than she knows, less important than his son) and because she is not afraid of him (despite the fact that she should be). Only for the puppet will he steel himself against the unfamiliar feeling of being around people and sit there and talk, because he made a deal (a favor for a favor, and that is always the way the world works) and because he made a promise (another deal and so he cannot break it).

When he walks into the sheriff’s station, he finds Marco there, stooped on a ladder as he peers into a cupboard and tinkers with tools. Gold smirks and allows himself a moment’s satisfaction. It took only a few hints, dropped fastidiously here and there over the past week, a few comments about there being room for repairs in the budget, for David to agree to call for Marco’s aid. And so, Gold thinks, another deal is finished, a promise fulfilled.

“Mr. Gold,” David greets him, gesturing him into his office where the sounds of Marco’s work are dampened by glass and distance. “August and Emma should be here any minute.”

“I should hope so,” Mr. Gold says. He ignores David’s invitation to seat himself and stands near the door, where he will be able to see August Booth’s face when he first catches sight of the man who was his father in another lifetime. “I would hate to think I’d done all this work on Mr. Booth’s behalf only to have him skip town before it’s put to rest.”

David frowns at him. “The fact that Billy hit his head in the woods and spent days wandering around in a daze is what cleared August. _You_ had nothing to do with it.”

Gold tilts his head, studies the sheriff, and wonders if he really believes that or if he, too, harbors secret suspicions. “Even so,” he remarks. “The mayor isn’t a woman who likes to be crossed. I imagine she’s rather upset about the whole affair and its conclusion, as well as with anyone who was involved in it.”

“Tell me about it,” David says with a grimace. He sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, and there is little fight or strength or hope in the slump of his shoulders, the grim cast to his features, the weariness in his voice. The curse had dangled hope in front of him for twenty-eight years, Gold knows (though perhaps the sheriff and his once-wife think their relationship secret), but now the savior is here, and as much as her presence weakens the curse, it also causes the magic inherent in the spell to close more tightly about the ones held within its grasp. He wonders, idly, how much time the sheriff thinks he has left to live, and whether the curse will really kill him to keep its secrets intact.

Because of his position near the door, Gold easily sees August enter the station, casting a wary look to the cell where he’d spent five days (so little time compared to the twenty-eight years Gold has spent in his). Emma is at his side, triumphant and strong, her expression challenging as she levels a stare at Gold.

If he were a wiser man, he would look away. But he is not wise, and he is his own worst enemy ( _now_ , anyway, since he rid himself of the obstacle standing always invisibly between him and his memories and his son and so much more that he had never suspected), so he does not look away, and he sees every instant of shock and realization and wonder and love and guilt on August Booth’s face as he catches sight of his father. He sees him stumble to a halt, sees his eyes widen and his mouth drop open and pain and hope and joy and shame mix and mingle in his eyes to create a concoction powerful enough to affect even the austere Mr. Gold’s heart.

Too late, he looks away and fashions a smirk to armor himself against the searching, dangerous stares of everyone around him. He is ready, when August finally looks at him, but the sharp, stinging pain is already lodged inside him, trapped behind his mask, locked inside him (and invulnerability isn’t what he thought it was). He smirks at the boy become a man and he says, “Marco’s quite the handyman, but he’s a bit slow—could use some help, if you’re staying in town for a while.” Just as he planned and inwardly rehearsed, only now there is an edge to the words, a cruelty born of jealousy and envy.

So easy, always so easy for others, while _he_ waits and plans and sacrifices and still has no one at his side.

“I’m afraid you have to stay a while longer,” David interjects, oblivious as usual to the delicate subtext Gold deals in. “Billy’s alive so technically there’s no case, but the blood we found still makes this a matter for the courts. So, until we get this figured out, no leaving town.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Emma says. August looks at her, but he cannot speak, not yet. The stabbing sensation in his chest is too much already, so Gold is careful not to look too closely at Mr. Booth again. No need to once more look in his eyes and see a mirror reflection of his own bereft state.

David smiles at Emma, some bit of his weariness receding when she smiles back at him. “Good. All right, then, just the matter of a bit more paperwork to see to.”

Paperwork is good. It is full of loopholes and legal jargon and important details. It is simple in its complexity and straightforward in its circuitousness, and so Gold is able to bury this pain as deeply as all the others he has suffered through the years (most self-inflicted, but then, that only makes it worse because then there is not even self-righteousness to comfort him) and remind himself of who he is.

He is Rumplestiltskin, Spinner and deal-maker. The inspiration of nightmares and the subject of horror stories. A father who has almost (but never quite, never fully) forgotten the feel of his son’s head against his shoulder, the exact shade of his boy’s eyes, but never, _never_ , the absolute and undeniable importance of Baelfire.

He is Mr. Gold, pawnbroker and lawyer. The shadow who haunts the town and the loanshark sought out by the most desperate. A man who has forgotten what it is to be loved or touched or welcomed, but he cannot miss it because he has never had it.

He is on a mission, a quest, and he has been a hero only once in his life, and even then only with the aid of a powerful Dark One, but he must be a hero again, and this time on his own. He must find his son, must rescue him, must take whatever crumpled, hurt, and shredded remnant of Bae is left and put him back together, mend him, help him, remind them both of the feel of a son’s hand in a father’s.

By the time the last of the paperwork is filled out and the final statement is written, Mr. Gold has reclaimed himself. He can look at David and see only a tired sheriff. He can look at August and see only a client whose case is all but finished. He can look at Emma and see only a stranger who might one day be useful to him.

Or so he tells himself.

So he must believe.

He is so _close_. A curse is all that stands between him and his goal, and it is a curse strong enough to destroy a world and powerful enough to transcend realms and invulnerable to all but the product of true love woven into its own composite form, but when there was before a world and time and a Dark One standing between them, this now seems in comparison almost simple. He is almost there and he will allow nothing to stop him, not now, not after the lives he has taken and the darkness he has invited into his own soul (and the chipped happiness he walled away from his heart far too late).

“Mr. Gold.” At his name, he looks up from his briefcase and finds August regarding him, a challenge engraved in blue-gray, defiance in the set of his chin. Emma stands next to David over by the file cabinets, out of earshot, and she gives the sheriff a faint smile as he gestures in accompaniment to his words.

“Mr. Booth,” Gold returns sedately.

“Seeing as how this entire case could have been resolved without you, it seems…unfair…to hold Emma to her deal with you.”

“Does it?” Mr. Gold tilts his head, stands to his feet, and leans on his cane.

“It does,” August states firmly. Marco left sometime during their meeting and it appears the absence of his father (or the nearness of him) has turned the man bold. He stands, too, rising to his feet and looking down at the pawnbroker. Mr. Gold simply readjusts his weight so that he can meet August’s eyes without developing a crick in his neck; he has faced down taller, and braver, men than this puppet. “I think,” August says, “that a man who values his reputation of always delivering on his deals should let Emma free of this one.”

Mr. Gold arches a derisive brow. “Really.” He makes sure the word does not sound like a question. “You think I had nothing to do with the way this case turned out? You _really_ think that?”

August tenses, a frown creasing his brow. “You…what _did_ you do?”

“More than you know,” he replies, and he smiles, because that is what Rumplestiltskin did. August pales, more than enough reason for Gold’s smile to grow a bit wider. “And even if I should wish to renegotiate the deal—which is, I might add, not something I do—I believe the agreement was between myself and Ms. Swan.”

The light from the windows adds a sheen to August’s eyes, a spark of defiance. His hands are clenched into fists. But he swallows as he looks at Mr. Gold, and it doesn’t matter that he wants to save Emma (wants to protect his savior), because Gold knows the look of a man who cannot enter a fight, and there is no way August will confront him now, with Emma so near and David still present and Mr. Gold himself still a question mark.

His smile turns cold, his eyes sliding away as he swivels with the aid of his cane and heads toward the door. “Enjoy your freedom, Mr. Booth. And, oh,” he turns halfway back, “I was serious about Marco needing a bit of extra help. It’s a pity he doesn’t have a son around to lessen his burden…isn’t it?”

It is a good day, Gold decides with a certain amount of satisfaction. He leaves the Sheriff’s station with a treasure trove of currency—a favor from the savior, an ally in the sheriff, and a bit of healthy fear and uncertain suspicion keeping August from trying to force Gold into anything more than he’s ready to deliver. He’d been compelled to let on to the mayor (to the woman he’d once thought could be more than a student) that he remembers who he really is, a step he’d hoped to avoid a while longer but one that can only, in the long term, aid him. She can’t touch him, not until she finds her heart, but she can’t use him either (not now that he is wise to her ways and immune to her charms), not while he possesses the dagger, and so they are forced to a neutral ground.

Perhaps it was a risky move, to give August almost certain proof that he is Rumplestiltskin, but it’s a risk he had to take. Cora knows, so it’s best to have another—someone who’s more likely to come to his aid—also know. Perhaps they will balance each other out, leave him with an ally to stalemate his enemy. Or perhaps it will backfire and come back to bite him (and this is more likely). He’s not sure. The future once spilled out before him like a whole mess of potentials and possiblys and maybes, but there is no magic here, nothing to give him that extra sight or help him choose his next path. He has only his own plans, his own preparations, his own wits (and nothing else, because what he’d thought would help him had in the end betrayed him), and that must, for Bae’s sake, be enough.

Mr. Gold heads toward his shop, eager to retreat from the townspeople’s unusual kindness and to return to the familiarity of his shop, the quiet solitude of his wheel, where he can think and plan and scheme, go through the steps yet to come and search (yet again, over and over lest he have missed something) for any errors or problems or flaws. He won’t find any, but he must be careful anyway, must double- and triple-check and set still more safeguards in case anything should go wrong. (He has learned his lesson, and he has sworn he will never again be caught unawares.)

Strangers cannot come to Storybrooke. That is a law of the curse, a rule that has never been broken. There is Henry of course, son of the savior, allowed inside because it was Gold who brought him. There is Emma and August, but they are both from the Enchanted Forest and touched by magic, allowed into the curse’s net because like calls to like. But there is no one else, not in almost three decades.

So why, Gold wonders, is there an unfamiliar car driving down the street, passing him, and pulling up outside of Granny’s? There are no new cars, and Mr. Gold recognizes every vehicle in Storybrooke. This long, black car, a newer model than any in town, is strange and unfamiliar; Gold has never seen it before, but…but there is something familiar, something alarming, about the profile of the driver.

Instinctively, Gold draws back, fading into the shadows of the alley across the street from the diner. Tucked up against the wall, supported by his cane on one side and cold brick on the other, he peers at the car as the driver shuts off the engine, opens the door, and steps out.

Tall (so much taller than Rumplestiltskin). Lean (corded with the muscle of a swordsman). Clothed in black (leather and laces and seductive menace). Ebony hair (the sort Milah had always liked). Vibrant eyes outlined in more black (a pretension Rumplestiltskin had sneered at, one that made his eyes, shining with reflected green light, crackle with rage and fury). Smooth, sinuous steps (casual and confident and free of any hint of a limp).

And missing a hand (because it’s all he left Rumplestiltskin all those long centuries before).

“Jones.” Gold isn’t even aware he spoke the name aloud until he hears it and startles, as if the mere utterance of it can attract the pirate’s attention and bring him sauntering across the street into the alley in which Gold shelters.

For an instant (and that is as long as it ever lasts, isn’t it?), he is consumed with hope, with relief, with joy. Because Jones is here and that means Gold doesn’t have to wait for a curse to break, doesn’t have to leave to travel an alien world, doesn’t have to search through millions of strangers. Jones is here, and that means his quest has come to _him_.

“Bae.” And this time Gold knows he says it aloud because it is the same name he has whispered into the darkness of his tiny apartment as he sits and spins useless, endless wool. “Bae.”

But Bae doesn’t get out of the car. The windows are tinted, but the sun shines on them, and there is no one else sitting inside. No boy, battered and bruised and haunted by whatever Jones has done to him since stealing him from Rumplestiltskin. No grown man, older and bitter and broken because his father had not grabbed him, held him, rescued him.

No one.

No one but Jones, striding into the diner and greeting Granny with a familiar leering smile and laughing and gesturing with an arm that ends in a black-cuffed stump.

Jones. And no Bae.

Gold has lost the ability to see into the future. But he thinks, coldly and furiously (because it is easier to be angry and wrathful and cruel than it is to be terrified and desperate and alone), that he knows exactly what the pirate’s end will be.

Bloody and brutal and _slow_ —and far too good for him.

“Bae,” he whispers, and it is as much a vow of vengeance as it is a talisman.

\---


	7. Desperate States

\---

_Zoso stared at him, eyes wide, craggy skin gleaming in the shadows, and there was something in his expression that had never been there before—respect. Apprehension. Even, maybe, a touch of approval._

_“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, as he did when he was impressed by Rumplestiltskin’s wording and didn’t want to show it. As if, by asking again, he could make Rumplestiltskin doubt himself and rethink his command and leave the Dark One alone to whatever it was he did when Rumplestiltskin dismissed him so he and Bae could spend a few hours alone together._

_Before, maybe Rumplestiltskin_ would _have doubted. Maybe he would have hesitated and thought some more on whether this was wise. But not now. Not when Bae was missing and Milah and her pirate lover had come searching for a way to take what was his. They could be doing anything to Bae right at this moment—torturing him, hurting him, leaving him alone and abandoned and small while they wrote out a ransom demand (telling him how much of a coward his father was). Whatever it was they did to him, Bae would be defiant and brave, but if Rumplestiltskin didn’t come, if he wasn’t there for him as he had been when leading the children from the ogres’ battlefield…well then,_ then _Bae would be scared. His son, frightened and alone, and then he would think himself a coward, just as his father was, and there would be no going back from that._

_So, there was no rethinking his command, no looking back, no hesitating._

_Rumplestiltskin stepped right up to Zoso, shoved his face into the Dark One’s, and snarled, “I cannot run like this, so—heal—my—leg! Make it as it was before, so I can use it.”_

_The magic twined itself around him, rising from the ground to engulf his leg. Pain faded away before the path the magic took, bones reshaping and knitting together, skin smoothing out, muscles mending themselves back together. For the first time in years—so long Rumplestiltskin almost could not recognize the feeling—there was no twinge of agony when he stepped, no flare of fire captured in the joints when he tried to stand up straight, no catch of pain when he set all his weight equally onto both legs._

_It didn’t matter._

_Bae was still gone, and so nothing mattered._

_“Here,” he demanded, striding (with perfect, long steps) to the chest where he kept his most precious possessions. He tossed aside spools of gold thread, heard them clatter against the shards of glass and porcelain and wood scattered across the expensive carpets, but all his focus was on opening the chest, tucking the Dark One’s dagger into his belt, setting aside the clothing and toys Bae had grown out of, and finally closing his hands around the object he sought._

_He turned with the simple, homespun shawl in his hands, out of place next to the richness of his shirt’s fabric but oh so_ right _in his hands. “The shawl Bae was wrapped in as a babe,” he murmured, and there was something growing inside him, something dark and twisting and voracious, something that only grew and writhed inside him as he stroked the rough, warm weave. “Enchant it,” he commanded. “Make it grow warmer when I grow close to Bae—it will lead me to him.”_

_A flare of purple surged around the cloth, and now it was_ important _as well as_ valuable _._

_“Anything else, Master?” Zoso hissed, his whisper as sibilant and tempting as it had been in the forest outside that tiny village, when a torch flickered on the ground and the blood of children glowed in the skies._

_And this time…this time, Rumplestiltskin had no restraint to offer, no reason to pause and consider his next action. There could be only one reaction to Milah and Jones taking his son._

_He was shaking, trembling with the force of his terror and his_ rage _. Tiny tremors surged through his frame and if his leg had still been marked by his desperate love for a son he hadn’t known, he would have fallen, would have stumbled and had to hold himself up by way of the crutch still in his hand. With hands that shook as if he were in the midst of a terrible fever (and he_ burned _as if he were wracked with chills and sickness, sweat on his brow and fire in his eyes), he wrapped the shawl around his neck, felt it against his skin where it would warm and guide him to his son._

_“I want…” he said softly, slowly, eyes fixed on the window where the twilight streets were visible, blue and silver on brown and beige and stone. “I want Milah and Jones to be afraid. I want them to feel as much fear as I do. I want them to be backed into a corner. I want the town—the_ world _—to know that a crime has been done here. I want Bae to look up and_ know _that I am coming for him. I want…I want my son back.”_

_A smile curved Zoso’s thin, twisted lips (Rumplestiltskin didn’t need to turn and see it; he could hear it in his voice). “Then let us hunt them, Master.”_

_And they did. The sky grew black above them, clouds surging and roiling with ebony power, silver lightning flashing through the cracks and chinks in those storm-clouds until the air itself hummed and crackled with their potent energy. Wind howled in from the sea, carrying waves and tides with them, shrieking with eerie shrillness when it encountered the port town, knocking aside boats and docks and the detritus of a fishing community as it raged inward, screaming out the anguish grinding Rumplestiltskin’s heart to stone, to a tiny hardened pit, to dust._

_And Rumplestiltskin strode through the streets, the eye in the midst of the storm. He did not limp. He did not waver. He held his walking staff in his hand, but it was a weapon, a symbol of the power he held, rather than a crutch. The wind tore outward from him in all directions but did not touch him. The thunder rent the skies and shook the earth but did not dare mar his path. The lightning struck before him, behind him, to his left and his right, but never once alighted too near him._

_The earth itself shrank from Rumplestiltskin in fear (as he had once shrunk from the world in fear), and the people fled from before him (as the ogres had once fled from the sight of him on the battlefield), and the shawl around his neck led him outside the town, to the woods that grew outside the beaches, where Jones and Milah had been driven when the ocean betrayed them._

_When he caught sight of them in the distance (when the shawl burned around his neck with strange, shifting heat), the last vestige of control Rumplestiltskin had been clinging to frayed and snapped. Perhaps he still could have held on to at least the pretense of restraint if they had_ not _had Bae, if they had not been holding onto him with greedy hands, if they had not been dragging him away from Rumplestiltskin (as Hordor and his men had once dragged Bae, their hands iron vises around his arms as they forced him toward battle and death)._

_But they_ did _have Bae. And they were holding onto him, each one with a hand around his arms as he struggled against them. And they were dragging him deeper into the woods. And so Rumplestiltskin became the storm that raged around them and the lightning that speared the earth and the wind that howled its fury and the thunder that rumbled with power._

_Zoso stepped inside Rumplestiltskin, adding power to his frame, hiding his own form within Rumplestiltskin’s, and Rumplestiltskin felt his bones stretching to accommodate the Dark One, felt his veins sparkling with power, felt his soul groan and writhe as it accustomed itself to the feel of power. The dagger was tucked into his belt at his side, glowing with tangible magic and strength; the shawl hung from his neck, burning with purpose and love._

_“Bae!” he shouted. Thunder split the air an instant later, and lightning lit the woods with gold and silver illumination, an explosion impacted by his very voice._

_In the flash of hair-raising light, Bae fought his captors (his_ mother _) and turned to look over his shoulder toward Rumplestiltskin. “Papa!” His mouth shaped the word, but Rumplestiltskin could not hear it over the clamor of his heartbeat, the rush of blood through his veins, the sound of Jones and Milah shouting to one another over Bae’s head._

_Milah let go of Bae and turned to face Rumplestiltskin. Jones grabbed hold of Bae’s other arm, held onto him so tightly Bae could hardly struggle. The trees themselves bent before the shockwave of horror and rage pouring from Rumplestiltskin in all directions._

_“I want them to be afraid,” he had told Zoso, and so they were. Milah’s eyes were wide, her chest heaving with uncontrolled breaths as she faced down the man she’d abandoned. In that moment, Rumplestiltskin didn’t see his wife, the woman he’d once loved, the woman he’d thought he’d love forever. He saw an obstacle. An enemy. A threat standing between him and the only person in the world who mattered._

_“Rumple, please, let’s talk about this,” she was saying, but he had no reason to listen. She had never listened to him, never cared when he poured his woes and his hopes and his fears out before her, and it was he who didn’t care anymore. “Rumple! Don’t do this!”_

_“You took him from me!” Rumplestiltskin snarled, and he hadn’t known his voice could sound like that, all silken menace and coiled danger and taunting predator. “You abandoned him and then you stole him from me!”_

_“I know it was wrong,” she said (as if anything she said mattered; as if anything she said could stop what was about to happen). “We just wanted to talk to him, ask him how you’d come to be living here, with the ability to weave straw into gold.”_

_“You’re not exactly helping your case,” Rumplestiltskin warned her, and was surprised when the lightning and adrenaline and magic pouring through his body resulted in a giggle (maniacal and crazed) emerging from his lips._

_“Just think about it!” Jones called out from behind Milah. He held Bae close to him with one arm and with the other he was fumbling for something from the pouch tied to his belt. “You give us the dagger, we give you your son—everyone goes away happy!”_

_Rumplestiltskin had never known he could feel such disgust. Maybe this was what his comrades had felt when they’d found him sprawled on the ground with the condemning hammer fallen beside his hand. Maybe this was what the townspeople had felt when they saw him limping through the outskirts of town trying to make some bit of money off the work of his hands. If it was, maybe he could understand why they had treated him as they did—because the disgust was so powerful, so thick, that he could only curl his lip and stare incredulously at Milah._

_“Trading your own son for power?” he asked, a quiet, dangerous whisper._

_“Isn’t it what you did?” she retorted, her brow rising in the same derisive expression she’d worn every single time he’d gone into the local tavern to bring her home (as if it were he who had betrayed their son). “You didn’t even know where he was a few hours ago—too interested in your gold and your magic and your power to worry about him.”_

_The unfairness of the accusation, the untruth of it, the injustice of having Bae hear such a thing, made Rumplestiltskin’s vision go red at the edges, made his hands clutch his staff so hard that the wood groaned as if it would shatter into splinters. Behind her, Jones cast something to the ground, and a tornado—whirling and green and furious as it ate through the earth—sprang into being at Bae’s feet._

_(A green tornado, seething with hope and the opportunity of escape. His father’s hand in his, eyes snapping with ambition and dreams and so many desperate plans that hadn’t included Rumplestiltskin at all. A bean, pure magic offered to him freely and given away just as freely.)_

_“Bae!” Rumplestiltskin shouted. For an instant, he forgot he held power. For an instant, he was hopeless and helpless again, lame and friendless and_ nothing _without his boy. (For an instant, he was small and young and betrayed, so utterly betrayed that all he could do was sob and look for a doll that wasn’t there, a father that was no longer.)_

_But only for an instant._

_Rumplestiltskin surged forward (so quickly, so agilely now that he had two good ankles). But Milah was there, between him and Bae and that cyclone Bae was trying to flee from (smart boy that he was, always so much wiser than Rumplestiltskin), screaming for his papa, panic and terror (for Rumplestiltskin) in his eyes. Milah was in his way, nightmares flashing in his eyes, and his son was_ too far away _!_

_“Reach out.” Zoso’s whisper threaded through his very mind, his soul, soft and suggestive and oh so sensible._

_Rumplestiltskin reached out with his hand, his staff falling heedlessly to the forest floor._

_“Grab hold of her heart,” Zoso directed._

_His hand disappeared inside her chest. He closed his fingers around something small, beating rapidly, warm and self-contained._

_“Pull it out.”_

_It came without any resistance, glowing in the storm-wrought night. It pulsed and thrummed in time with the beat of Rumplestiltskin’s blood through his veins, hypnotizing, mesmerizing. Oh so very vulnerable._

_“Crush it.”_

_Time itself seemed to pause as Rumplestiltskin hesitated. Everything seemed suddenly crystal clear around him. Milah gaping at him, one hand to her unmarked chest. Jones behind her, staring back at them, his left hand wrapped around Bae’s arm. Bae, wide-eyed and horrified, frightened (was he disappointed again?), his free hand scrabbling against Jones._

_And Rumplestiltskin himself, standing before them all without a crutch. Glowing, pulsing heart in his hand._

_And a portal that had already taken his family from him once. A gaping, voracious hole that sought to swallow up everything he loved, everything he sought to hold onto._

_Then time rushed forward, engulfing Rumplestiltskin once more into its rapid flow, and suddenly everything was happening too fast._

_“Milah!” Jones screamed. “Let her go, Rumplestiltskin, or I’ll take the boy—”_

_A growl tore itself free of Rumplestiltskin’s throat, and he didn’t need Zoso whispering his last command again to know what he had to do._

_“Crush it.”_

_His hand tightened into a fist around the heart. Dust trickled from between his fingers to stain the forest floor with ash and matter._

_Milah collapsed without even a sound._

_And Jones’s expression went cold and distant and chilling. He pushed Bae forward and shoved him down into the roaring hole (disappearing forever, gone, gone, gone, just like the clever hands and laughing voice and distracted gaze of the man who’d been his father so very long ago), still with his hand around his arm, and then he jumped himself._

_“BAE!” Rumplestiltskin screamed. There was no time to stare down at his wife’s body. No time to consider what he’d just done. No time, even, to wipe the gray residue from his palm._

_All he had time to do, all he_ could _do, was throw himself forward, reaching out, straining forward, feeling the air shoved from his lungs as he hit the ground on his stomach, hands desperately trying to catch hold of a hand, a sleeve, a hank of hair, anything just so long as it kept his son with him (because Peter Pan was gone forever, and he couldn’t let Bae suffer the same fate, tossed aside and forgotten)._

_“BAE!” he screamed, so loudly, so desperately, that his throat was rubbed raw and useless._

_He caught something. A hand. Strong and large—a man’s hand._

_Jones._

_He’d caught him. Almost, he let go, but Jones was holding onto something, with his right hand—Bae._

_So Rumplestiltskin held on, too (with the strength of a man this time, holding onto flesh-and-blood, not a shadow creature out of nightmare). With one hand, he drew the dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the ground, held onto it with everything he was. With the other, he locked his grip around Jones’s hand and refused to let go. He would hold on until the thunder and lightning and wind and lashing rain succeeded in razing this place from the earth if he had to, but he was not going to let go of his son._

_“I’ve got you, Bae!” he tried to yell, but his voice was raspy and worn, frayed with fear and horror and panic and even he could not hear himself (though he thought he could hear, faint and frightened, Bae calling out for his papa, and the echo of the past, the remnants of his own childhood, were so frightening he choked on his own bile)._

_He couldn’t see Bae, could only see Jones, hanging against the slope of the crater the tornado had made, his expression furious as he glared upward at Rumplestiltskin._

_“Let go!” he shouted. “It won’t stay open for long!”_

_And it didn’t. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, barely before Rumplestiltskin had time to tighten his hand around the hilt of the dagger, the vortex closed._

_The forest went silent with chilling suddenness. The lightning died away, the thunder faded, the wind vanished, the storm-clouds lightened until stars could prick through their blanketing cloak._

_Rumplestiltskin had jolted with the force of the release of tension when the cyclone closed, but now he couldn’t move. He lay there, sprawled against the cold, wet ground, and his hands were still closed in a death’s grip over two things._

_The dagger (still buried in the earth)._

_And a severed hand (still warm and tight around his and far too light)._

_The shawl around his neck was stone-cold._

_And just like before, when beans had opened portals and sons had cried for their fathers, he was left alone._

_“Bae!” It was the echo of a shout, riddled with uncertainty and exhaustion and terrible, awful_ terror _. “BAE!”_

_He let the hand fall, a gruesome complement to the heartless corpse behind him. He barely had the presence of mind to pull the dagger from the dirt and keep it with him as he half-stumbled, half-fell into the crater (empty of_ everything _) the tornado had left behind._

_He scrabbled in the dirt and crawled through the mud. He called out his son’s name until not even a whisper emerged. He wept hot, thick tears and tried to think of something, anything, everything, he could do,_ would _do to bring Bae back (as Malcolm had never done for him)._

_And finally he fell still in the center of that crater (the wrecked remnants of his life)._

_“Zoso,” he said, and even if his voice was nothing more than a rasp, his hand around the hilt of the dagger made the Dark One appear at the edge of the crater (the grave), staring down at his master._

_“Where did they go?” he asked. Calmly, because to be anything else was to be lost to anguished grief. “Tell me the truth—the_ whole _truth.”_

_“It was a bean,” Zoso replied shortly. “They create portals to other worlds.”_

_Rumplestiltskin shivered, all the reaction he could allow himself to this explanation he’d heard before, in feminine voices cracked with age and weathered with affection. “And what world was Bae sent to?”_

_“Hard to tell,” Zoso replied. “The beans go to a multitude of different worlds and it’s not really my purview. I might be the Dark One, but even I’m not all-powerful.”_

_Growling, Rumplestiltskin leaped up from the hole (both of his legs working, whole and strong and_ able _) and slammed Zoso back against the trunk of a tree. “You’d better figure it out,” he snarled. “Because we’re going to find out what world he’s in. And we’re going to do whatever it takes to get to him—I don’t care what we have to do or who we have to kill or what magic we have to learn or how many lifetimes it takes. We are going to find him and we are going to bring him back. So you tell me how we find out what world he went to!”_

_Zoso tilted his head, stared at Rumplestiltskin, and for the first time, there was nothing of superiority or disdain in his expression. He almost looked…afraid._

_“Tell me!” Rumplestiltskin hissed, his hand tightening around Zoso’s throat._

_“A seer,” Zoso said, quickly. “You need the power of a seer to look into the future, so we can see what world the pirate took your son to.”_

_“A seer,” Rumplestiltskin repeated. And he smiled, a broken, thin, crazed smile (because Bae might be alive, but he was still gone, still alone, betrayed by his mother and failed by his father). “I know exactly which seer to find.”_

_Because maybe Bae was gone, but that did not mean he was fatherless. Not when he was born, not when he was drafted by greedy soldiers and a now-dead duke, not now and not ever. (Rumplestiltskin would never betray his son, never abandon him, never leave him lost and aching and wanting and weeping even when there was no hope left.)_

_Rumplestiltskin_ would _find him. He would find him and he would save him and he would kill Jones, if it was the last thing he did._

_The coward would become a hero, and Bae would be safe._

\---

Emma has grown used to the rhythm of Granny’s Diner in the mornings. She knows that Flayme and his assistant Orchid come in every morning just after seven and stay for half an hour or so; Flayme always exchanges a few words with Emma, his smile easy but his eyes weary and discouraged, before he sits down with Magnolia and lets her convince him to look over whatever paperwork she brings with them.

At almost eight, Ruby will look around to make sure Granny isn’t watching and then she slips out the back for fifteen or twenty minutes (Emma suspects that her ‘break’ coincides with Billy’s walk to the garage where he works). It was hard, over the past week, watching the waitress stare toward the back disconsolately and stay where she was, but Emma is happy to see her back to her usual routine now that Billy’s returning to work.

Granny stays behind the counter, handing orders to the cook and taking money, always ready with a greeting or a sharp word depending on who she’s talking to. She’s a tough old bird, but Emma spots the kindness in her eyes, the affection when she scolds Ruby or the relief when August comes down for breakfast before excusing himself with some story about chasing down a job offer (as if he plans on staying in town long enough to need a job).

August had helped Emma finally find out what happened to Neal all those years ago before she’d ended up in jail, so she’d promised him a week in the town of his choice. She’d thought they’d be out of here as soon as the week was up, but then, she hadn’t exactly counted on finding the son she’d given up or August being embroiled in the middle of a murder investigation. Suspicious, that, and Emma is sure they haven’t heard the end of it, but at least August is free now. He doesn’t belong in a cell, locked away (not when he was born to move from place to place, restless to go to new places and see new people, experience ever new things to put in his ever more far-fetched stories).

Hard to believe, then, that it’s been almost three weeks since she and August drove into town. Three weeks, and contrary to what she thought, she doesn’t mind. She is growing…almost comfortable…here. It’s not the feel of decades past that pervades the entire town or the way she can walk everywhere she needs to go or the fact that the sheriff offered her a job a day after she arrived. No, it all has to do with the small boy who has Neal’s smile and her disbelieving look and his own brand of magic. Henry’s wormed his way deep inside her heart, and she only promised him a month, but Emma can’t imagine leaving Storybrooke and never seeing Henry again.

It’s strange, being in a place long enough to pick up the rhythms and habits, but she almost thinks she likes it. It’s steady, reassuring, familiar in a way nothing’s ever been in her life outside of August (and Neal, but she didn’t know him half as well as she thought, did she?); she appreciates always knowing what’s coming.

So she doesn’t quite know what to think when Mr. Gold breaks the normal routine by deciding to drop by the diner himself. He enters quietly, so quietly that it takes her a moment to realize he’s even there. Ruby stares at him when he approaches the counter, and he has to raise his brow at her after giving his brief order before she prompts herself to action.

Emma chances a look at the other patrons and observes their hushed silence and their surreptitious glares at the man standing quiet and alone at the counter, calm and seemingly untouched by the almost-hostile, almost-frightened attention he attracts. Emma catches his eye, and he gives her a quirk of his lips (a smirk that reminds her of the favor she owes him). She’s struck once again by the contradictions he seems to gather as much as he presumably does antiques for his shop—a quiet man who makes others fall silent, a small man who prompts a disproportionate reaction, a shop owner who somehow terrifies the town he lives in, a man with no allies who’s not afraid to stand up to the mayor (a lawyer who promises a bit of magic just before a murder victim shows up alive and well with only hazy memories of the past week).

“Your coffee, Mr. Gold,” Ruby says, handing him a Styrofoam cup.

He thanks her in a murmur, handing her a dollar (if there’s one thing Emma can’t complain about in Storybrooke, it’s the prices) and shakes his head when she tries to hand him change.

Emma takes in a deep breath and stands, ready to face him and ask him (again) what favor he wants from her. She dislikes the feel of being indebted to anyone, least of all someone as ambiguous as Mr. Gold (because no one inspires fear without there being some reason for it).

He must notice her movement out of the corner of his eye because he turns toward her, cane in one hand and coffee cup in the other. His mouth is open—she can already hear ‘Ms. Swan’ in his cadenced voice—when his eyes move past her, to the back of the diner.

Shutters slide over his eyes—slam shut, more like. He goes cold, emotionless, and for the first time, he looks as small as he is. For an instant. Then Emma blinks and he’s too big for the room to contain. His eyes flash fire, his mouth a hard, grim line, and if he speaks, she has the sudden chilling thought that he could command the kind of destruction the villains in August’s stories can. Then she blinks again and he’s Mr. Gold, calm, polite, invisible in a way that draws the eye, and he wordlessly takes his coffee and leaves the diner.

Emma turns and finds a tall man, dressed in black, standing behind her, his eyes following Mr. Gold like the eyes of a wolf follow a rabbit. Or maybe a bear.

It’s confusing (everything in Storybrooke is confusing, but this is different even from that), and Emma hates being in the dark. So she steps forward to draw the man’s attention and says, “Hey, haven’t seen you here before.”

“Well!” The man raises an ebony brow, an earring glinting in his right ear, his voice gilded with an Irish accent that sounds entirely different from the Irish accent sported by the ranger who helped her look for evidence to clear August. “Usually I’m the one making the pickup lines.”

“It’s not a line,” Emma says, setting her hands on her hips to provide a more intimidating picture. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“And if I am?” He’s tall and he takes advantage of that to look down on Emma as he lets out a chuckle. “Visitors aren’t allowed, then, ay?”

“Didn’t say that,” Emma snaps. She doesn’t like being put off-balance by this stranger, doesn’t like _having_ a stranger here (which strikes her as odd, but she ignores it), so she narrows her eyes at him. “But what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m just here to settle an old debt.” His smile is off-putting, something old and poisonous skittering along the edges of it. His eyes are blank, no matter how much he smiles, and she belatedly notices that his left arm ends in a cuffed stump. “But what, lovely lady, are _you_ doing here? Correct me if I’m wrong, but this doesn’t really seem like your type of scene.”

“Family,” she says, and only once the word is out does she realize how easily it rolls off her tongue. August’s been the only family she has for years, and once she thought she and Neal would be a family, but when the answer emerged, when she let the three syllables fall into the diner, she wasn’t thinking of them—she was (is) thinking of Henry.

The man gives her yet another smile, this one trying for companionable and falling creepily short. “Ah. Family—the things we do for our children, huh?”

Emma feels a short burst of adrenaline gild her veins, and her muscles tense. “I never said anything about children.”

“It’s all in the eyes, love.” The stranger winks at her, then laughs and waves his stump in the air between them. “The look of someone who’s been abandoned, who’s found family again at long last. It’s easy to spot when you know what to look for.”

“You don’t know me,” Emma tells him coldly.

“Well, I would,” he retorts easily, “if you’d tell me your name.”

She gives him her own version of a smile, a cold, hard smile she learned while stalking the lowlifes who break bail. “You first.”

“Jones,” he says, and his prompt response surprises her. “Killian Jones.”

“Really?” she remarks dubiously (it wouldn’t be the first time a man gave her a fake name).

“Honestly and truly!” He places his right hand over his chest, strikes an offended pose, and he couldn’t be more fake if he tried. Emma regards him, and she is more suspicious than ever. Nobody puts on such a show unless they have secrets to hide and are good at keeping them; he’s covering up whatever depth he has with these shallow misdirections, and it’s both insulting and alarming. For all that August told her Storybrooke was a quiet town, Emma is beginning to think there’s more going on here than she’ll ever be able to get a proper handle on.

“Well, Jones,” she says with a twist of her lips he can take as a smile if he wants, “I don’t hand my name out to just anyone.”

For the first time, Jones drops the smiles and actually looks at her seriously. “Not exactly the trusting type, are you? Well, can’t say I blame you, not if you hang around the likes of that man who just left here.”

“Mr. Gold?” Despite herself, Emma raises a questioning brow. “You know him?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He tries another smile, but it’s faint, as if he’s too distracted to pay much attention to it. People in the diner are watching them, and Emma wants to sit down to escape their curious observation, but she refuses to sit down to eat with this man, knowing full well how he’d take it. “Mr. Gold, you say. What does he do?”

“A little bit of everything, from what I can tell.” Emma tilts her head and studies this stranger. August would doubtless have all sorts of wicked commentary about him to whisper to her over ice cream cones, and a terrible, tragic backstory to explain the lack of a left hand and the shadows his smiles can’t quite conceal, but Emma looks at him and all she can see is trouble. “Why do you care about Mr. Gold?” she asks. “Is he the one you’re here to settle a debt with?”

“Would it bother you if he were?” Jones meets her gaze, and for just an instant, Emma thinks she sees something in him, something dark and brooding and as tragic in its way as anything August would be able to come up with. But she takes a breath and steps back and it’s gone, and Jones is just another sleazebag with an agenda thinking he can use her as a pleasant diversion.

“Mr. Gold’s his own man,” Emma says with a shrug. “I barely know him.”

Jones opens his mouth, some snarky comment already ready on his tongue, but a soft voice saying, “Miss Swan?” from behind her interrupts him.

Emma turns to see a quiet young woman, pretty with short black hair and green eyes, standing at her elbow, a package in her hands.

“Swan,” Jones repeats, smugly, oblivious to the glare she directs his way. “Well, lovely to meet you.” He brushes past her, and Emma lets out an irritated breath when the scent of saltwater and some kind of cologne assaults her nostrils in his wake.

“Hey,” she says, turning again to the woman she doesn’t remember meeting (not that that means she hasn’t; she’s met most people in Storybrooke at least once, it seems).

“I’m sorry to interrupt, I just…” The woman stops, lets out an embarrassed laugh, and looks back up to meet Emma’s gaze. “I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Mary Margaret, Henry’s teacher.”

“Oh.” Emma frowns, then realizes she might need to be alarmed. “Oh? Is he all right? I didn’t—”

“Oh, yes, fine. At least, I assume so. I’m headed to class now, but…I wanted to give you this.” Mary Margaret offers her the package in her hands, a rectangular shape wrapped in a brown paper bag.

“Oh-kay.” She’s not quite sure what to expect as she reaches out and takes the package, and for a second, she wishes August were there, to run interference between her and this schoolteacher staring at her so curiously, to say something that would make Mary Margaret laugh and diffuse the awkwardness hanging around them. But it’s just her, so she reaches into the bag and pulls out a very large, very old book. It’s bound in brown leather and the title _Once Upon A Time_ is spelled out in ornate golden letters across the cover.

Whatever she was expecting, it’s not this.

“It’s…a book,” she says slowly. People in Storybrooke are oddly welcoming, disturbingly curious, and strangely wary of strangers, but one of them coming up and giving her a book for no apparent reason takes it to a new level.

“Oh, it’s Henry’s favorite book,” Mary Margaret explains quickly, her eyes full of sincerity, wide with concern. “He reads it all the time. I think it gives him hope, and that’s an important thing to have.”

“Henry’s…” Emma looks back down at the book, vaguely aware that she has curled her hands more tightly around the aged binding. Suddenly, she is curious, intrigued despite herself, and she wants to sit down, open the book, and see what Henry sees. Try to picture what goes through his mind. Make herself more into the person he can want in his life, can continue to spend time with. Can love (and ordinarily, she refuses to change for anyone else, but for Henry, she thinks she would turn her entire life upside down just to ensure he keeps giving her that charming smile of his, so similar to and yet so different from Neal’s).

Mary Margaret steps a bit closer to her, lowers her voice, something that just serves to draw more attention. “Cora doesn’t like it, that Henry has the book and that Regina lets him read it. He’s learned to keep it secret, but…but they wanted you to have it.”

At first, she smiles, to think of Henry _wanting_ her to share in this secret, but an instant later, she frowns at the teacher, draws her over to a table to sit and hopefully get the people around them to turn their attention to something else. “‘They?’” she repeats with an arched brow. “As in…Regina, too?”

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath, pauses, lets it out; her hands play with the edge of the table and the strap of her purse.

Emma studies her a moment, then sets the book down on the table between them. “What’s going on?” she asks directly, because it’s easy to tell the schoolteacher isn’t comfortable keeping secrets (or whatever it is she’s trying to avoid from saying).

“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret blurts out, and Emma’s afraid she’s going to burst into tears. “I wasn’t supposed to tell, but this is ridiculous. Regina’s so frightened of you, Emma—afraid Henry will love you more than her or that you’ll take him from her. But…but she knows Henry loves you and that he wants you in his life, and if that’s what makes him happy…well, then, she’ll do whatever she has to. So she’s the one who asked me to give the book to you. She thought it might help you and him connect.”

“ _She’s_ trying to help me?” Emma sits back, her hands falling away from the book. There is a lump in her throat, a pit gaping wide in the center of her stomach. Because she _wants_ to take Henry and to be the most important person in his life—but she gave up that right a long time ago. “She doesn’t have to be afraid,” she finally forces herself to say through a dry throat. “Henry’s her kid, I know that. I just…he asked me to stay, and…and I wanted to.”

“Of course you did!” Mary Margaret leans forward and puts her hand over Emma’s. Emma can’t help but glance down at their joined hands, surprised at how…right…it feels (and it shouldn’t feel right, not with a stranger, so she tugs her hand free). “He’s your son, too, and of course you care about him! Regina knows that, she’s just…well, her mother doesn’t make things easy and she’s learned that fear is easier than confidence.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression from most people in town,” Emma says wryly. With an effort, she sits up straight and pushes the book toward the schoolteacher. “I don’t want to take this away from Henry. You should take it back. It was a nice thought, but…but I’m not going to be here forever.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret narrows her eyes, purses her lips, then nudges the book back. “No. They want you to have it. It’s a gift, Emma. You should take it. Read it. Henry needs as many friends as he can get.”

“You think so?” Emma can’t deny that she’s tempted, and she allows Mary Margaret’s quick, decisive nod to convince her (allows herself to start considering the possibility of the week after this one, and the week after that, and the week after that; allows herself to start thinking of a future here). “All right. Thank you. And tell Regina thanks, too, would you?”

“I will,” Mary Margaret agrees, “but maybe you should tell her yourself. She’s afraid to face you directly, but if _you_ were to approach her, it might be just what’s needed.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, but she doubts she will. Henry’s already snuck into her heart far more than seems possible—the walks to school, the mornings he meets her here for a hot chocolate before he runs to the bus stop, the days August was in jail when he’d rush to her side for a moment or two here and there to give her a hug and a smile and an “I know you’ll figure it out.” Kids aren’t her forte, but she’s pretty sure he’s special, brighter and smarter and more compassionate than any other child. He has Neal’s quickness and Regina’s way of moving and…and her…her…well, she’s not sure what he’s gotten from her, but she _hopes_ he has _something_ of her even if it only is her chin.

The one-armed man unsettled Emma, with his talk of children and old scores to settle, but Mary Margaret’s awkward encouragement and mentions of Henry are more important. So Emma takes the book and stands and heads to her room instead of going to snoop a bit more into Jones’s reason for being here. Strangers to Storybrooke might be news for the residents, but she’s only here for now (and maybe longer, but she can’t quite wrap her head around that one yet so she leaves it be) and she has a book to read.

\---

David is hunched over on the floor, curled up into as tight a ball as he can manage, a fist clenched against his abdomen, when Regina finds him. He hears her enter, tries to push away the pain and stand, but she’s there too quickly and her gasp, the brief silence that follows, then the sound of her heels hurrying toward him erases any hope he might have held about her not noticing him behind his desk.

“David!” It’s ironic, he thinks vaguely, that it took her finding him in excruciating pain to finally go back to calling him by his name. He likes it; he’s grown tired of the ‘Sheriff Nolan’ she’s used around him ever since his disastrous face-off with Cora.

Her hands on his back and arm are blessedly cool, and he gasps at the sudden relief from the heat encasing him in sweaty flames. She helps him stand, which only makes the pain worse, but he grits his teeth and says nothing as she helps him sit in his chair.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, and David can’t help but let out a harsh chuckle. It’s impossible she doesn’t know about his condition (everyone in town talks about it behind his back, in whispers, in hushed words that spell out his doom), and he’s not sure whether to appreciate her discretion or be irritated that she’s going to make him say it out loud.

“I’m fine,” he says through stuttered breaths, and as hard as it was for him to get the two words out, he thinks it’s a bit unfair that she doesn’t even dignify it with a response.

“David,” she says again. She doesn’t sound like the meek mayor’s daughter the rest of the town knows. She sounds assertive, almost confrontational, certainly confident. She sounds like the woman she should be, and the fact that she can only let this part of herself show when she’s alone with a dying man breaks David’s heart. Maybe, he thinks, the next sheriff will be able to succeed where he failed and actually manage to free Regina from her mother. He can hope anyway.

But Regina is staring him down, and he hates the guilt assailing him (though he’s not sure why _he_ should feel guilty when it’s the cancer that had him on the floor a second ago), so he sits up straighter and tries to pretend he isn’t being eaten alive from the inside out. “Really, Regina,” he says, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She narrows her eyes at him, half-shakes her head, and David has a feeling he’s getting the exact same look Henry does when he’s in trouble. “Have you even been going to the hospital lately?”

David looks away, humor falling away and leaving him completely unprotected. Vulnerable. Frail. (All the things he really is and tries to pretend away.) “Not really much point, is there?” he finally says with an attempt at a flat smile. His hand is closed tight over his badge and the edges of it cut into his palm. Hastily, he loosens his grip, not anxious to cut himself again; these days, it’s all too easy and he’s already seen far too much of his blood for comfort.

“What do you mean?” Regina stands up, grabs hold of the chair in front of his desk, and drags it over beside his. When she sits down, placing herself on an eye-level with him, David knows there’s no way he’s getting away with _not_ telling her.

And he’s relieved. He’s been carrying this burden for weeks, all alone, trying to compartmentalize it, stow it away somewhere he doesn’t have to think about it (about the flirtatious smiles and adorable laughter and sparkling eyes and freely offered hot chocolate he’s missing out on), but now, finally, he _has_ to talk about it. And Regina will listen, and she will tell no one (because she has no one to talk to aside from Mary Margaret, who won’t ask about him lest their secret meetings become fodder for gossip) and maybe getting this out into the open will finally let him stop feeling so afraid.

“What do you mean?” Regina asks again, leaning forward until there’s no way he can avoid her gaze.

“Six months,” he replies, and saying it aloud makes it real. It makes the pain and the bleeding and the shortness in his breath all seem like more than symptoms. It makes them feel like the beginning of the end. It also, strangely, makes him relax, as if hearing it aloud means there really _is_ no way to escape his fate, so he can stop fighting it, stop wishing for other things. “Six months to a year. That’s what they gave me. Nothing they can do, not really.”

Regina stares at him, motionless, eyes wide and stricken, and he can’t quite figure that out—they’re not _that_ close. But when she moves, it’s only to take in a shuddering breath and shake her head jerkily. “N-no. That’s…that’s not possible. You’re not…you’re not _dying_.”

David tilts his head and studies her. “Why not?” he asks curiously. “Everybody dies. And I have cancer, so…not much chance believing in happy endings or miraculous cures. Not much chance believing in anything; all it does is make it worse.”

She flinches as if he struck her. “But…I don’t understand. This…this isn’t…you can’t die! You’re not leaving!”

Despite the teeth gnawing away at his insides, David feels only pity for her. He leans forward and places his hand over hers for a brief moment. “I’m sorry, Regina,” he tells her (because it’s easier to be sorry for other people than for himself). “Dr. Whale did what he could, but—”

“You’ve been meeting Mary Margaret, haven’t you?” she interrupts, as if she hasn’t been listening to him at all.

“What?” He stares at her, his hand falling away from hers, drifting back toward his badge before he can stop it.

“You have.” She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again to stare him down. “Does she know about this? Have you told her?”

He wants to stand and pace, but he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him so instead he looks toward the window, just as excuse not to look at her as he confesses (might as well, after all, if Mary Margaret has already told her friend about the two of them). “What’s to tell?” he says blankly. “All of Storybrooke knows my condition—they’ve probably got bets going as to how long I’ll last. Mary Margaret surely knows.”

Regina narrows her eyes. “Knows that you have a chance, that the doctors are trying to help you—not that you’ve given up.”

_Given up_. What an odd phrase, David thinks. There’s a disease inside of him, his own body turning against him, and yet _he’s_ the one who’s giving up. He, who has no part in it, who is a victim of his own cells. _Given up_. As if he could, through sheer force of will, simply decide that he will fight and that the cancer must leave. As if it is his fault entirely that he is dying.

_Given up._

He has given up everything because he _has_ nothing left. Because he has no choice. He has given up Mary Margaret and love and happiness and even hope because his own body has given him up to rot and decay. And now, on top of all that, it doesn’t seem quite fair that he is the one who’s blamed for letting it all go. “Given up,” he says aloud, tasting the words, but it doesn’t change their meaning.

“What’s to give up, Regina? I’ve known for years this was the ultimate outcome. There’s no need to draw it out any longer than necessary. No need to make Mary Margaret go through all of this, too.”

“She might be able to help!” Regina insists, her eyes afire with purpose she doesn’t usually have. Ordinarily, that would please David, but right now, at this moment, it only makes him feel even frailer. “She could—”

“No,” David states firmly, daring to stand up simply because he can’t sit there any longer and listen to hope once more being dangled in front of him. He manages to keep standing only because he places his hand on the desk beside him to steady himself. His next words are cruel, but he is hurting and weak and he needs her to stop talking about Mary Margaret. “Would you invite Henry to face Cora with you at one of your ‘private lunches’? No? Well, I won’t invite Mary Margaret to face _my_ demons either.”

Regina goes completely silent, her fire and passion quenched as quickly as they came, and David shrinks into himself, immediately sorry for his hasty words.

“I’m—” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, then has to hastily sit as his knees buckle. “Look, it’s all right, really.” He forces a smile when Regina raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s…not for a while, right? And I’m looking for a deputy, so that should lighten my workload some, help spread things out. It’s not as bad as it might appear, really.”

And that was too many _reallys_ , but it’s been so long since he’s been casual (been _hopeful_ ) that he’s out of practice with it.

“A deputy?” Regina frowns at him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Who?”

“Emma,” David says, because he can’t lie to her and if Emma _does_ eventually agree to become his deputy, she’ll find out eventually.

“Oh. Emma.” The meek mayor’s daughter, the one who flinches at sudden moves and shuts herself away when she’s disturbed, makes a reappearance, shifting in her seat, her eyes downcast. “Of course,” she murmurs before visibly steeling herself to look back up at David. “So…she’s staying then?”

“I…” David takes a breath, swallows, then says, “I don’t know.” He doesn’t, not really (even if he does have suspicions due to things she’s said about Henry and the town and August, and even if he did hear Granny mention that the two strangers paid for rooms up through the next several weeks, and even if he’s really _hoping_ that she will because he likes her and he needs someone like her to make him stop feeling sorry for himself), so it’s not a lie, but he tries to change the subject immediately anyway. “So, what did you come here to talk about?” he asks, and he thinks he does a passable job of not looking guilty.

“Oh.” Regina blinks, gives a minute shake of her head, then straightens in her seat. “Uh…a stranger, actually. A new one.”

David gapes at her, sure that he heard her wrong. “A new one. Someone _else_ has come to town?”

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s commonplace for newcomers to drive into Storybrooke. “A man who goes by Killian Jones. He’s missing a hand, he smiles too much, and he’s asking an awful lot of questions about Mr. Gold.”

“Mr. Gold?” David gives a half-shake of his head and makes a small, surprised sound. “Interesting. A few weeks ago, I was surprised not everybody knows who Mr. Gold is; now, I’m a bit surprised that someone _does_ know of him. An old friend come to visit?”

“So far as I know, he’s avoided the man himself,” Regina replies, her dark eyes intent on David (as if she is not sure what to think until she knows what he thinks).

“More like an enemy, then,” David decides. “Well, I’m fairly sure Mr. Gold can take care of himself.”

Regina pauses, frowns at him, then says, “You don’t care?”

The accusation stings more than David wants to admit, but he’s already spoken too harshly to her (when she’s trying so hard, being so strong, doing her best to help), so he breathes through his nose, ignores the constant pressure burning in his side, and says very calmly, “Mr. Gold and I aren’t exactly what you would call friends. If a crime is committed, then I’ll care. For now, I don’t really see why it’s any of my business. But,” he adds, a bit awkwardly (because maybe he wasn’t as kind as he was trying to be), “thanks for the tip that there might be trouble.”

“Strangers to Storybrooke aren’t normal,” Regina lectures him, and he almost smiles to hear the tone she uses on those who go to the stables for riding lessons (he went twice, back when he thought he could help her and she invited him, and he still remembers how natural she looks and sounds and acts when surrounded on all sides by open space and horses). “Somehow, I’m sure these strangers are all connected, and I’m not so sure they mean us any good.”

A tiny twist of sympathy distracts David from the constant pain. Regina holds onto Henry with everything she has, so afraid he will slip away from her (or be torn away by her domineering mother), and he knows that she is intimidated by Emma’s presence, by Henry’s interest in his birth mother, by Emma and August’s long stay. He wonders, briefly, if he should talk to Henry, ask him to reassure his mother, before he reminds himself that it isn’t his business and the last thing the already-complicated situation needs is another person looking to interfere.

Still, he manages a smile for Regina. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promises, because that’s what she needs to hear.

She isn’t quite satisfied by it, but she stands to go anyway, her actions a bit slow, almost reluctant. David watches her from his chair (standing seems beyond him at the moment), hoping that despite his hasty words, he was able to reassure her. She’s at the door and he’s turning back to regard the files he dropped on the floor (and he wonders how long it will be until he feels strong enough to pick them up) when she pauses and looks back to him.

“David,” she says softly, a note of…something…in her voice that immediately attracts his attention. She looks different, shadows from the hall behind her casting darkness across the planes of her face, the glittering depths of her eyes. She looks strong, unmarked by abuse or pain or fear. She looks, he thinks, as regal as her namesake. “Please be careful. Things are changing, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He blinks, swallows back a lump in his throat, and wonders how this simple moment of concern can hurt worse than all the whispers and the rumors and the cancer inside him. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely. He does not know why she cares so much for him (when he could not help her and had to leave her trapped with her mother) or why she has come to him for help (when their friendship has dwindled away into only a fraction of what it once was). He doesn’t know why, but he treasures it all the same.

But before he can say anything (ask her to dinner with Mary Margaret, tell her how frightened he truly is, apologize _again_ for his failure), she turns and leaves, and he is left alone in his empty office staring at files he can’t even attempt to pick up lest he fall on his face.

And the next time he falls, he doesn’t think he’ll have the strength to get up again.

\---

“Sooo, what are we meeting Emma for?” Henry asks, his hands clutching the straps of his backpack as he keeps pace with August.

“Don’t know,” August says. He throws the kid a smile, too, because smiles are cheap and the kid needs as much encouragement as he can get (because smiles are masks and pain is easier to bury than to unearth). “She called and said to meet her, so…here I am.”

Henry nods. “And here I am, too.”

“So you are.” This time, August’s smile is more sincere. He likes the kid, wants to help him as much as possible, and he’d much rather help Henry than see him turn out like August himself. Idly, he wonders what he would do if he could start all over again, turn back the clock, only this time make sure that he got to live his childhood out with the man who created him. It’s a useless fancy; he’s long since learned that it’s better not to wish for impossible things, not to even think of them—easier and more painless that way. But his imagination has always been his failing.

“Emma knows I hang out with you in the afternoon, doesn’t she?”

Shrugging deeper into his jacket, August looks down at the kid. “Yeah, of course she does. You’re the one who told her, remember?”

“Well, yeah, but…” Henry pauses, a thoughtful look sitting comfortably on his features. “I didn’t know if she’d _told_ you that _I_ told her.”

“Kid,” August says conversationally, “has anyone ever mentioned to you that you think too much?”

“Yeah, all the time.” Henry grins up at August, and August’s breath catches in his throat. It’s Emma’s mischievous smile, the one she throws over her shoulder at him when he’s following her even though he knows she’s doing something dumb. The smile that leads him on even when he should stop her.

“Well,” he says hoarsely, then clears his throat, “don’t stop.”

Henry nods. “I won’t.”

August really doesn’t have any idea why Emma wants to see him. She’s been letting him be for the most part, since he was let out of prison (since Rumplestiltskin worked some of the old world magic in this new, more ordinary, stranger world), so a call out of nowhere asking him to meet her outside the Sheriff’s station makes all sorts of alarm bells start ringing in his head.

Not that he minds. It sure beats standing outside Geppetto’s woodshop, buried in his rickety garage. (Except that here it’s Marco, and that’s the reason he’s been unable to walk _into_ that garage, but once it was Geppetto and that’s why August continues to go to that workshop day after day.) Another day, another failure to actually _speak_ to the man inhabiting his father’s body…well, that’s not exactly something August was looking forward to. Much better to meet with Emma and listen to whatever insane plan or idea or thought she’s come up with this time. She has a knack of being able to surprise August constantly, no matter how often she decries her hatred of surprises.

“Hey,” Henry’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” August says, pointedly avoiding looking down into the perceptive gaze that’s not Snow White’s or Charming’s or Neal’s or Emma’s or even Regina’s (it’s Henry’s alone, and all the more piercing for it). “I’m fine. I’m out of jail, aren’t I?”

“Jail’s not as scary as other things can be,” Henry says wisely, and August is surprised into looking down at him, and then caught by that perceptive gaze that sees right through him, looks past masks and smiles and witty remarks to the scared and lonely boy curled up in the rotted cocoon deep beneath.

“Lots of things are scary,” August finally replies, “but it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to face them anyway.”

“It’s okay to be scared, though.” Henry releases his backpack with one hand and reaches out, curls his fingers through August’s (and August can’t breathe or speak; he can feel something warm and revitalizing surging outward from Henry’s innocent touch, something powerful). “All heroes are scared sometimes.”

August lets out a laugh that could almost pass for a sob and half shakes his head (the moment, the sensation, passes as quickly as it came). “I’m no hero, Henry.”

“Every hero says that,” Henry tells him sagely.

Then why, August wants to ask, is he still just as alone and isolated as he was a few days before? Why hasn’t he gotten the hero’s ending?

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t, because they’re outside the Sheriff’s station and Emma and David are coming out, their heads tilted close together, and there’s no more time for talk of heroes and villains and boys who fall somewhere in the middle (which is the worst place of all to be).

Or maybe he doesn’t ask simply because he already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it spelled out in Henry’s clear, childlike voice (so similar to another child’s, years before, outside a diner, trying to explain the infant in his arms and the strange clothes he wore, all while shaking in abject terror at the strangeness surrounding him on all sides).

“Emma!” Henry calls out, and he runs forward and wraps his arms around Emma’s middle. Emma freezes in surprise, and yet her arms open automatically to receive him. Any other day, the sight would make August smile, but today, coming from his useless surveying of Marco’s woodshop, it only makes him wish for things for himself (and he thought he’d trained himself not to do that).

David manages a weary smile when he looks August’s way, and August returns it, though he notes, with narrowed eyes, that the sheriff leans semi-casually against the brick wall of the station, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets.

“Sheriff,” August says, and David doesn’t bother to correct him.

“Good to see you,” he says. “More good than you know, actually.”

“Oh?” August frowns and looks to Emma, who’s knelt down on the ground to look up at Henry as she says something August doesn’t quite catch. Something that makes Henry light up like the festival of lights Charming and Snow had hosted at their coronation. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I’m just glad you decided to stay,” David says. “It couldn’t have come at a better time. Have you managed to find a place to work yet?”

“Uh…” August can barely speak—barely even remembers that a question has been asked. He’s too busy staring at the badge tucked squarely in Emma’s belt, visible for all to see when she stands back upright, the gold metal catching the sunlight and refracting it back to blind August.

“If you need help finding something,” David’s saying, “let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

August forces his attention away from Emma’s mischievous smile (an echo of the one Henry flashed his way mere moments earlier) and back to the sheriff. “Um, thanks, but…I’ve got a couple leads.”

“Good. Well,” David smiles at Henry, casts a glance between Emma and August, then heavily straightens. “I guess I’ll be going. Whenever you can come in tomorrow, Emma, we’ll get a schedule figured out.”

“Right, okay.” Emma gives him a small wave, then turns to August with a pleased smile curving her lips upward, her eyes glittering with smug triumph. “Surprised, huh?”

“This definitely isn’t what I was expecting when you called,” he admits, finding it hard to look away from the badge clipped at her waist. He’s been searching for a clue, a hint, a sign that he’s on the right track, that anything he’s doing is helping at all. He thinks that maybe that badge is it.

Emma flashes her brightest, happiest smile down at the beaming Henry, slings her arm around his shoulders, and starts walking back toward the bed and breakfast. Dumbfounded, reeling a bit, August follows along behind, his steps paced in time with Henry’s excited chatter and Emma’s lower replies.

He starts to walk a bit faster, intent on hearing what she’s saying (on asking her if she’s realized the importance of her presence in Storybrooke), but his attention is caught by a cluster of women walking at a brisk pace across the street, headed in the direction of the outer limits of Storybrooke, near the cemetery and the abbey. Which makes sense, considering it’s a group of nuns.

In their midst, following along behind a tall, slender nun who speaks with broad, waving gestures, is the Blue Fairy.

August comes to a halt in mid-step, stumbling slightly but never breaking his gaze with the woman who brought him to life, who gave him sensation and emotion and mortality, who charged him with the daunting task of being a good person.

She looks normal. That’s his first thought and it shakes him to his very foundations. The fairy who heard every wish for her help, who traveled on the beams of a star, whose legends filled every corner of the Enchanted Forest…she’s normal. She’s just like everyone else, her hands tucked beneath her cloak, her breath misting out in quiet puffs ahead of her as she walks ( _walks_ , and fairies don’t walk; they fly) after the nuns (who are probably other fairies, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to think about it so he doesn’t).

She was his last hope, his failsafe in case he couldn’t figure out how to introduce Emma to the concept of saving a transplanted world from a curse. When everything else failed, when the Spinner revealed whatever tricky wordplay gave him the choice to stand on the sidelines, August had been sure he could count on the Blue Fairy.

But she’s cursed, too. Helpless. Vulnerable. Completely oblivious to his stunned gaze on her and his hopes falling crashing to the ground in dying embers and sapphire dust.

“August? August!”

Gradually, he becomes aware that Emma’s calling his name, and he manages to finally tear his eyes from the shell of the Blue Fairy to look at the savior. Henry’s gone, but August belatedly realizes they’ve passed the turn the boy always takes to return home. Emma’s staring up at August, her brow creased, her hand a steel vise around his arm.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He shakes his head, clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, swallows and then says it again, more strongly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…thought I saw someone I recognized, but I guess I didn’t.”

“Yeah?” Emma hesitates, something she doesn’t do often so it catches his attention. “Did you…did you ever find the man you were looking for? The one you thought could be your father?”

A bitter laugh escapes him, so he starts walking again to outrun it. He doesn’t want to succumb to the possibility of defeat, of hopelessness (but the Blue Fairy is beaten and Rumplestiltskin might be too and he feels more alone now than he did even when standing beside a hollowed tree holding an infant in his arms and staring up at a giant metal dragon in the sky), but even though he tries to outrun it, he knows he’s always been more pessimistic than he wants to admit.

“I did,” he admits, “but he wasn’t the man I was looking for.”

Emma grimaces sympathetically, real compassion in her eyes. She brushes a quick hand over his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. But you said it yourself, right? What were the chances?” He fixes his eyes on his feet, stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeps his shoulders rounded. It’s not a resolute stance, or a determined stride, but it’s all he can do. It’s too tempting to spill out the whole unbelievable truth to Emma otherwise, so all he can do is hold himself in, shut down around this secret.

“I…” Emma hesitates again, then looks away from him, granting him some distance in the way they have, letting her voice be the only thing to bridge the gap between them. “I didn’t know you were looking for your parents, August. What…what made you decide to start?”

“I’m not looking,” he says (the truth, because even if she’s someone he doesn’t know, the sight of the Blue Fairy is enough to remind him of the ideals he’s supposed to strive for). “I’m _waiting_.”

He knows she hates that answer. She stiffens, grimaces, gives a half-shake of her head. Emma is not a believer in waiting for things to happen (for curses to break), in sitting back and letting others come to her (come to town), in relying on anyone else (a savior). She’s always done things herself, and while it’s an admirable quality for the savior to have, it certainly makes August feel lacking himself.

So he doesn’t give her time to voice her objections and her cynical doubts and her firm belief that their parents don’t care enough to come looking for the children they’d abandoned. Instead, he straightens a bit, forces the melancholy tone from his voice, and says, “So what made you decide to stay in Storybrooke _now_? I’ve been dropping very _un_ subtle hints for a while now and you’ve been ignoring them.”

“I know,” Emma says, letting herself be distracted. She even let a wistful smile break through to curve her lips upward. “It was Henry. He’s…he’s a great kid. And I know he’s not mine, not anymore, but…he _was_ mine, once. Mine and Neal’s.” She swallows the obvious lump in her throat. “He looks like him sometimes, you know? And he does things. Things that remind me of him. Of me, even. But it’s not only that.”

“Oh?” He lets one of his hands fall from his pocket to swing it at his side, incidentally (or not) letting it brush against Emma’s, knuckles to knuckles.

“It’s just him.” She shrugs helplessly, and August finds it heartbreaking that she has had nothing in her life to give her anything to compare this new feeling to. “He’s so smart, and he wants to help everyone, and he’s kind of alone for a kid but he never lets it stop him. And he…”

“You love him,” August breathes. He’s been hoping this would happen, sure that it would, but it’s been only three weeks since they came to town, less than a month since she’s known Henry. Even though August had called her often, it had still taken her nearly a year to trust him after she’d moved in with him.

“I…no…I don’t know.” Emma shrugs again, as if she’s forgotten every other gesture. “I like him. A lot. And now that I’ve seen him, now that I know him, I want to be in his life. That’s hard to do from Boston, but it’d be easy if I lived here. And he _wants_ me here.”

“He told you that?” August asks, delighted. Maybe this whole time he’s been taking the wrong tack. Maybe all he needs to do is sic the kid on her and tell him what to say.

“Yeah.” And now she is smiling, and she’s beautiful, eyes bright and wide and vivid, the hard lines of her face disappearing, the sharp angles softening, the years of regret and grief fading. “He gave me—well, his…Regina gave me a book. His favorite book. And as long as they let me stay—as long as he _wants_ me to stay—then I’m going to be here.” She pauses in front of the door to the bed and breakfast, breathing heavily after these confessions. “I can’t think of a life without him in it, as much as possible.”

“I’m glad,” August says softly. He is, too, and not because of the curse. Just because she’s happy. There have been times he’s resented her, for being more important than his own life with his father, and other times he’s tried to run from her. But he’s loved her since the first time he made her laugh, waiting in a roadside diner for the proper officials to figure out where to ship the two kids, the lights of sirens playing over her unformed features, heavy in his lap. He’s loved her, and he always will, even if she one day hates him for the life he’s kept concealed from her.

Emma sighs and pushes the door open, leads him up the staircase to their rooms. “I know I didn’t talk to you about it, but like you said, you’ve been dropping hints, and anyway, I usually stay in Boston while you go off and do whatever it is you do, so I figure you can come back to Storybrooke between trips as easily as you came back to Boston.”

“I said I was glad,” August repeats. “I think I’ll be sticking pretty close myself.”

“Good,” Emma says, and he can tell she means it.

“So,” he drawls (his heart is beating at its normal pace again now that he’s not staring at the nun who was once the most powerful fairy or a poor carpenter who was once the most esteemed woodcarver in all the kingdoms or a man who was once a cricket, the umbrella he carries all that makes him familiar). “What did you say it was Regina gave you?”

“A book,” Emma replies, pushing open the door to her room. “You’ll like it.”

“I usually like books. As long as the writing doesn’t outshine mine, of course.”

“Well, this is a kid’s book of mutated fairytales as best as I can figure out—so it might.”

“Ouch!” August rolls his eyes at her. “Words cut deeper than blades, remember.”

Emma smirks at him. “I know. Here it is.”

He accepts the oversized brown-bound book she hands him and sits down on the edge of her bed to hold it in his lap as he opens it. It takes him only a moment, only a few pages, before his heart is once more beating at an uneven rate and he’s staring at all-too-familiar faces with none of the humor or horror or wonder he usually has for the fairytales in this world.

“It’s pretty weird, huh?” Emma asks him, watching his face closely. “They’re not recognizable at all—I mean, they have the names of Snow White and Cinderella and Red Riding Hood, but they’re not like any version I’ve ever heard.”

“You’ve never paid attention to fairytales,” he says numbly, the retort made more by habit than anything. He stares down at the picture of a young man (who looks exactly like the Dr. Hopper Henry talks so much about) talking to the Blue Fairy (who has no power here). Proof—living proof staring him in the face—that his deepest, most buried fears are groundless. He _is_ right. There _is_ a curse. And it _is_ up to him to get Emma to save them all. (Somehow, he thinks it would be less frightening if he actually were crazy and made all this up.)

Emma rolls her eyes and plops down beside August. “Yeah, yeah, so sue me.”

“Emma, it’s you,” August breathes. The pages, flipped beneath his wondering fingers, have fallen open to the end where a tiny red-headed boy cradles a baby wrapped in a white and purple blanket (it was so soft, as soft as Snow’s hair when she leaned down to set the infant in his arms) in front of the enchanted wardrobe his father carved for him. In the background, shadowed so that his face can’t be seen, stands the Spinner, recognizable only because of the staff he leans on.

“It’s not me,” Emma scoffs, recalling August to the present. “It’s a baby with my name, and I admit the blanket looks kind of like mine, but—”

“Kind of?” August repeats incredulously. “It looks _exactly_ like it. And that’s—” But he cuts himself off before he can tell her the father standing over the baby, holding the door of the wardrobe open, looks exactly like the sheriff who just hired her as his deputy. Emma never does anything she’s pushed into; the only way to get her to do something is to lead her to it, pretend he doesn’t realize what he’s done, let her come to her own conclusions.

So he coughs and says, “That’s quite a book,” and he slams it closed because it’s woken up long-dormant memories and now they clutter his mind, threatening to distract him.

“It’s Henry’s favorite book,” Emma reiterates, and he knows that’s the most important thing about the book to her now.

Regina, he thinks. Regina gave it to her, and Henry’s read it. Maybe…he almost can’t dare think it lest he be wrong, but maybe he’s not quite as alone as he thought.

“So,” Emma twists to set the book down on the bed behind them, then looks back up at him. “Are you planning on getting a job? You told David you had a few leads.”

“Yeah,” August says, “I do.”

And he’s not alone and he’s not crazy and it’s not quite as hopeless as he was thinking, so the next day when he goes to Marco’s workshed, he manages to speak, to tell him about a father who would probably be disappointed in him, to ask if there is any work he can do for him. And when Marco welcomes him with open arms and works at his side with a quiet smile and the cadence of the accented voice August has missed so very much, he starts to remember what it is to hope.

\---


	8. Fruit Of The Poisonous Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I missed posting the real chapter five, which I can only imagine led to a lot of confusion, with a whole chunk of the story missing right in the middle! I'm SO sorry for the mix-up, and I've gone back and added the REAL chapter five -- The Thing You Want Most -- which will hopefully help set some things straight. Again, I apologize for that mix-up!

\---

_The bags were unbelievably light, even when he held them all together in his hand, a fortune worth kingdoms now laid at his feet as he waited for the Blue Fairy to come to him. It had taken him three years of concentrated effort (longer than he’d hoped, less time than he’d realistically thought it would take), but he’d finally succeeded in attracting the Reul Ghorm’s attention. A cold smile marred Rumplestiltskin’s mouth as he watched the night sky for signs of the fairy’s appearance. No wishing on a star for him; the bags leaning against his ankles would do all the work for him._

_“I still think this is a mistake,” Zoso muttered, his voice crackling in the way that had long ago grown more familiar to Rumplestiltskin than any other sound. Once, it had frightened him; now it only made him roll his eyes. “We had a plan—no need to deviate from it.”_

_“Our ‘plan,’” Rumplestiltskin reiterated patiently, “would take us decades longer. I’m tired of waiting. We don’t need a curse when we can use the bean the fairies have.”_

_“The seer said—”_

_Rumplestiltskin snarled, whirling to face the Dark One before he could finish his sentence. “The seer is a liar! She said Bae would end up fatherless, but he_ won’t _! The fairies will give us the bean, and we’ll save Bae!”_

_“Of course, Master,” Zoso agreed, no trace of his earlier irritation present in his voice. “I simply think we should be cautious. The Reul Ghorm is as ancient as I am, and just as powerful in her own way. She’ll be furious at us, for what we have taken, and will not be eager to grant us any favors.”_

_“Good thing I’m not asking a favor, then,” Rumplestiltskin said, his voice sliding up an octave as it did when he couldn’t bring himself to care about the conversation any longer, and he tidied his rage away so that he could go back to standing in the moonlit clearing, leaning on his staff (a symbol of who he was now rather than the mark of weakness it had once been), the weathered shawl that had once warmed at Bae’s proximity looped around his neck as it always was, its ends hanging down to conceal the dagger tucked into his belt. He’d acquired a castle in the centuries since his son had been stolen from him, but it had never been home, and he carried with him everything that mattered._

_Zoso was silent for several moments longer, allowing the stillness of the forest around them to sink more heavily into Rumplestiltskin’s consciousness, thick and cloying, building on his impatience as memories and futures spun endlessly through his mind. It had been hundreds of years since he’d last seen his son, so many decades longer than his life should have spanned (but that was where a Dark One with the power to spin back time came in handy), that the memories should have long since dulled (but the Dark One had helped with that, too, etching them indelibly into Rumplestiltskin’s mind so that he would never forget the son who loved him and had screamed for him as he was ripped from this world). Hundreds of years, and yet he could not bear to remain a moment more, could already feel every nerve in his body writhing in anticipation of movement._

_He couldn’t stay, not for even a day longer. He had the ability to see the future now, had stolen it from the seer and stood over her body as she foretold his doom and Zoso tsked and commented that he should have been the one to acquire the prescience rather than Rumplestiltskin, and he could still see the many cloaked and winding paths that would lead to a curse large enough to rip everyone from this world (just as Bae had been), powerful enough to erase who they’d been (just as the feeling of a heart turned into ash in his hand had destroyed the man Rumplestiltskin and left a stranger—a monster—in his place), complex enough to provide for a savior and a way to leave its confines and enter the world where Bae would be._

_But that would mean staying here. That would mean going back and facing her further down the road and manipulating her into casting the curse. That would mean pretending his heart wasn’t currently a mess of sharp slivers grinding in his chest (as it had been since the night a decade ago when she faced him in a moonlit meadow and showed him the box with her own heart, packed and tidied away)._

_“I only hope this isn’t because of Cora,” Zoso said just then, able to read Rumplestiltskin as easily as he summoned his magic, bringing up her name because he knew, somehow, that Rumplestiltskin’s thoughts had returned to her._

_It was hard to think of anything else. He’d thought she could alleviate his loneliness (thought one monster could love another). He’d given her his secrets and his teachings (his heart and his future). He’d fooled himself and ignored the darker hints of his foretellings (ignored that no one could love him, no one would choose him; ignored that he had no right to happiness)._

_He’d loved her, and she’d betrayed him._

_Well, he’d gotten his own back for that, in kingdoms and betrayals and penniless coffers and magic that no longer achieved what she wished, and now…well, now he was done with this world that had given him only pain and heartache, done with it because it had nothing left to offer him (at least not now that he’d stayed long enough to ensure she would never be queen, never have power, never beat him again, and he’d never known just how empty revenge was until he’d watched her head bow in defeat). He didn’t need a curse; he only needed fairy dust, and at his feet, he had fairy dust enough to power the entire Enchanted Forest for three years. Fairy dust enough to demand the Blue Fairy’s assistance._

_“Cora isn’t worth our time,” Rumplestiltskin finally muttered, and he hated that Zoso would be able to tell he was lying, hated the featureless, knowing look the Dark One directed his way. Sometimes he felt as if Zoso were on his side, almost a friend, and others he felt as used and worthless as he had all those lifetimes ago when Zoso admitted he’d wanted Rumplestiltskin to kill him and take on the curse himself. It didn’t make for an easy time between them, that constant uncertainty, but Rumplestiltskin didn’t care. He needed Zoso to rescue Bae, nothing more._

_His only warning that the Blue Fairy was approaching was Zoso closing his mouth over whatever remark he was about to make and sinking into Rumplestiltskin’s skin, taking his customary place. He’d warned Rumplestiltskin that it might not fool the Blue Fairy, but at this point, Rumplestiltskin didn’t really care whether it did or not. What matter if it became known (to more than Cora) that he was only the master of the Dark One rather than the Dark One himself, when he wasn’t going to be here for much longer anyway? It was a secret that had allowed him to move on from the travesty that had occurred in that portside town (from the crater that marked his son’s passing and the corpse that had once been his wife), a secret that had given him some distance from the grief that had threatened to send him mad, separated the loving father he’d been from the numb murderer he now was—but it was, ultimately, a secret he didn’t need anymore._

_With Zoso sinking familiarly into his bones and his veins, Rumplestiltskin straightened and faced the star falling toward him, resolving into a tiny winged fairy, her wand clasped in one small hand. She glowed with an azure nimbus, but his eyes penetrated the aura as easily as he saw through the dark (Zoso wasn’t the only one who’d picked up new tricks in the centuries spent collecting knowledge and power), and he could see the cold, angry expression cast over delicate features._

_“Rumplestiltskin,” she said, and despite himself, he shivered to hear his name on her lips (power spilled out like ink on contracts around them). But Zoso lent him power in his very skin, his flesh and blood and bone and marrow, and fairy dust lay at his feet as if it were regular dust gathered from peasants’ feet and millers’ hands and children’s faces, and he was not weak any longer._

_“Fairy,” Rumplestiltskin returned with a sneer. He tightened his grip on the bags of fairy dust, reminded himself of the spells he’d watched Zoso cast over them, tying them to Rumplestiltskin’s proximity. It was hard to believe he was so close to finally finding his son. So close to being able to give up all this darkness and isolation and heartbreak (to put it behind him and pretend it didn’t matter next to the touch of Bae’s hair beneath his calloused palm and the scent of his young skin and the sound of his voice). So close. Only moments more. Only this one last deal._

_“Who would have thought the Dark One would ever summon a fairy?” Her voice tinkled in the darkness, like icy diamonds skipping across placid lakes, plink-plink-plinking a path out into dark, cold water. She was pristine and perfect, each edge chiseled smooth, each ruffle placed just so, each word precisely chosen. It was a game to her as much as to him, her poise as much a façade as his madness, her kindness and her goodness proffered as easily and as misleadingly as the simplest of his deals. She claimed to come to those who needed her most, but Rumplestiltskin looked at her and knew the lie of it. She came because he’d stolen her fairy dust. She came because she wanted something he had. She came, now, because he was too powerful for her to ignore (and she had not come when Bae needed her most because Bae had had nothing to offer her)._

_Rumplestiltskin looked at her, and he hated her._

_“Who would have thought a fairy would stoop to consorting with us ‘creatures of darkness’?” Rumplestiltskin retorted with a giggle that had come to him in the darkest, slowest of nights when Bae seemed farthest away and Zoso’s voice grated and nightmares of deals he’d made and crimes he’d committed hung around him like ghosts. The hand gestures, the rolls of his eyes, the flourish of his hands, all of it came naturally to him by now. He’d been playing this part so long he’d almost think he’d imagined any other if it weren’t for the crystal-clear, pain-real memories etched into his mind and soul._

_“This is low, even for one as dark as you!” the Blue Fairy retorted, her wand pointed to the bags he held in his hand, and if not for the binding spells Zoso had cast, Rumplestiltskin was sure he wouldn’t have held them any longer. “That fairy dust is for everyone in this land—not just for you, but for those who need it most.”_

_“Well,” Rumplestiltskin sneered at her, “at the moment, I’d say_ I’m _the one who needs it most. And seeing as you’re here, oh so courteously come to my call,” and he bowed, elaborately, sarcastically, with the most mocking grin he could conjure slathered over his face, “I would guess that you’d agree.”_

_She drew back from him as if he’d genuinely surprised her (as if she was just now realizing the depths of desperation that would drive even the Dark One to a feat as bold as this). “What could_ you _need fairy dust for?”_

_Rumplestiltskin was frozen, motionless, struck with simultaneous, conflicting feelings of confusion, shock, and fury. “Do you think only ‘creatures of light,’ such as yourself, can experience pain?” he asked her, and maybe he was taunting her, maybe he was prowling forward like an animal, maybe Zoso was shifting within him warningly, but none of that mattered next to the sight of this fairy who could have saved Bae and hadn’t. “Do you think you hold a monopoly on wishes? I’ve granted more wishes in a mere year than your fairies have in decades, spent more magic on bestowing the desires of these petty mortals’ hearts than you have ever dreamed, and magic, as we both know, always comes with a price. Do not,_ fairy _, think for a moment that you are the only one who has ever paid that price.”_

_“And do not think,” she said, all calm purpose and aloof neutrality, a star unmoving before the ferocity of sun and tide and storm alike, “that wishes are to be confused with deals. I know what you offer people, Rumplestiltskin. I have heard your name whispered from mouth to mouth until it has transformed from name to legend to nightmare to magic. I have witnessed the consequences of your deals and the price of your magic. And I know who you are.”_

_“Well, congratulations!” Rumplestiltskin shouted, so abruptly, so violently, that the fairy started back despite herself. “You must win a prize for that deduction! Tell me, O wise fairy—if you truly know who I am, why does a Dark One merit so much more attention than a lame spinner?”_

_“Because a Dark One threatens the futures of everyone in this land,” she replied immediately, “and because a spinner, lame or not, father or not, did not ever wish upon a star with a pure heart.”_

_Rumplestiltskin swallowed back his denials, his cry that he had wished on more stars (on snowflakes and baby’s breath and cotton dancing in the wind, wished with everything he was, wished with every beat of Bae’s tiny, precious,_ pure _heart), that he had screamed to the heavens and whispered to the shadows his wish, his greatest desire (wanted to grab her in his hand and rip her wings off and tear at her until he could figure out what made her tick, what made her fly and appear and disappear and look at him with such kind, sad eyes), and yet it had never mattered. No one had saved Bae. No one had even tried until he’d reached out his own hand and plucked a knife from flames. Until he’d invited darkness into their home and watched his son vanish into another world._

_But it didn’t matter._

_This world had nothing left for him. His son was in another world (the worst of all worlds, where anything was possible and fathers disappeared and shadows ripped children from parents), his wife was dead by his own hand (and he was a monster, now, something so much worse than a coward, so much less than a spinner), his own legend was something he’d long since tired of (year after year after immortal year, dribbling away like sludgy sand through frozen hourglasses, until the face in the mirror was one he no longer recognized and all the mirrors shattered when he neared), and the only woman he’d thought tainted enough to love him had ripped out her own heart rather than face a life with him (has promised him a future, then ripped it away, and he’d been left alone again, abandoned for power, for flight, for things that were worth_ more _). He’d made his mark, he’d fulfilled his deals, he’d manipulated and wheedled and insinuated until all was in place, but he was tired of it. Decades more, a curse that would rip away everything (but not at his hand, no, never at his hand; he’d become so very, very good at making sure another, scaled hand performed his murders and his crimes, his magics and his curses), decades more of waiting and waiting and waiting, all while watching that heartless witch rule over what remnants were left._

_No. The seer had been wrong. He had another way. Another world. A shortcut._

_“Threatening futures,” he hissed, silent and graceful now, dressed in leathers and silks and bristling armor of the finest materials (and still none of it could hide him away). “Yes, about that.” He lifted the bags of fairy dust slowly, almost indolently, and watched the Blue Fairy’s eyes widen, locked on the collection of his recent thefts._

_“Why are you doing this?” the Blue Fairy demanded plaintively, her hand reached out as if to save the dust from whatever nefarious fate he had planned._

_Rumplestiltskin formed an elaborate shrug as if it were a dance. “Because I can!” he trilled. “And,” he added, lower, deeper, more dangerously, “because you have something I want.”_

_“I?” She drew back, but there was cunning in her eyes, calculation in the slant of her mouth, the curl of her hand around her wand. “What could I have that the man who would be Dark One could want?”_

_A slight chill wafted through him, a shiver up his spine, at the odd, intentional wording of her question. Zoso stirred within him, uneasy, wary. “Careful, Master,” he breathed without breath, whispered without sound._

_“Oh, I think you know,” Rumplestiltskin said, careful (oh so careful when these were his last moments in this world) not to give away his sudden tension. “And come, come, dearie, three bags of fairy dust for one measly little bean seems like a deal all in your favor.”_

_“Which makes me hesitant to accept it,” she retorted, and it was the first answer of hers he’d actually liked._

_“Let me put it another way…” He swung the bags carelessly from his hand, letting sparkling dust fall to litter the forest floor, trod beneath his feet like useless dirt. “You give me the bean, I give you the fairy dust; you leave me alone, I leave your world alone—seems to me a win-win situation for you, wouldn’t you say, dearie?”_

_“Dumping this world’s problems on another is hardly a solution.” The Blue Fairy scowled at him, and for the first time, he could not read her expression. “I know why you are desperate to leave this land, Rumplestiltskin, but I have to wonder—are you certain this is the right choice?”_

_Rumplestiltskin was filled with black, oily rage, creeping through him until Zoso had to swell within him in order to be large enough to contain it all. He could feel himself straighten, fill out, taller and broader, his eyes filled with malevolence. “It’s a little late to be asking that question!” he snarled. “Easier to ask it centuries ago, before we’d already walked down this path, don’t you think?”_

_“I think you are alone and unloved and afraid,” she said softly. “I think you are lost and you don’t quite know how to get back to where you should be.”_

_“I think I know exactly where I want to be,” he trilled out with a laugh and a dancing step. “And all I need’s a bean. So what do you say?” He swung the bags between them again, let a flicker of fire spark from Zoso’s presence to his fingers, glinting like amber gold against rainbow-sparkled dust._

_The Blue Fairy tensed, all icy anger and aloof worry. “Fine!” she snapped. “The fairy dust for a bean.”_

_“The last magic bean,” Rumplestiltskin reiterated, carefully, lest she try to trick him as he’d tricked others before._

_“The last magic bean,” she admitted._

_“And no lies!” he added, wagging a finger before her._

_“We don’t do that,” she said haughtily, and then a bean was in her hand, glowing like a nebula of stars, green and small and full of promise and hope (and nightmares, oh so many nightmares)._

_Rumplestiltskin went breathless, and it was Zoso who moved to speak through him, to grate out the undoing of the binding spells and to reach out to catch hold of the bean while the three bags of fairy dust vanished at the fairy’s behest._

_The Blue Fairy cocked her head slightly, studied Rumplestiltskin closely, curiously. “The Dark One,” she said musingly, but Zoso made Rumplestiltskin look up at her calmly, so she shook her head and then straightened to her full diminutive height. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Rumplestiltskin.” And she was gone, as ephemeral and scarce as diamonds in the life of a spinner and his son._

_Zoso stepped out of Rumplestiltskin and shook himself exaggeratedly. “Of course she does,” he growled. “If you_ don’t _find what you’re looking for, you’re back to messing in her territory.”_

_“Who cares?” Rumplestiltskin murmured, his breath warming the bean held so delicately in the palm of his hand. “We_ are _going to find Bae, so it hardly matters.”_

_“Right,” Zoso agreed sarcastically. “Because Neverland isn’t going to have dangers of its own. You do realize why no one ever travels there voluntarily, don’t you?”_

_Rumplestiltskin waved the matter aside (no use speaking of it when he had nothing left to hold him here, not even cowardice enough, any longer, to keep him from the world where his father had disappeared forever), instinctively checking to make certain he had his scarf, his knife, his staff, all with him, the bean safe in his hand (everything he needed in this world; everything he could give up the instant he was holding Bae again). “That’s what magic is for, to protect us and to find Bae. He’s there, the globe said so, and all we have to do is find him. Then we can do whatever he wants.”_

_Zoso folded his hands in front of him and nodded soberly. “Beautiful plan,” he remarked. “Very detailed and specific. I foresee no problems.”_

_“Good thing I’m the one with the foresight, then,” Rumplestiltskin snapped._

_And without waiting another instant, without any further ado, he tossed the bean down and wished for Neverland (for the second time in his life; for the_ last _time)._

_For Bae._

_The green tornado was every bit as terrifying this time as the last two times, every bit as violently horrendous and loud. But it was a path to his son, so Rumplestiltskin stepped to the edge (with a Dark One rather than a cowardly gambler), and he jumped without hesitation._

_And, like Malcolm before him, Zoso followed after._

\---

There’s a bell over the door of his shop that rings and tinkles—or sometimes clangs, depending on the desperation of the one entering—its sobering melody whenever anyone braves his shop. Gold hates it more than anything, this relentless, laughing bell. He knows Cora (or was this sadistic move planned by Zoso?) had it placed there expressly to torment him, and he knows (though does not admit) that it _does_ hurt him. Every time he hears it, he tells himself to take it down, but he never does. And now, as it rings above Emma Swan’s head (making her start and look up warily), he thinks it only fitting that a bell, of all things, should mark the moment the savior first comes to him of her own free will.

“Ah, Deputy Swan,” he says, and winds between the glass counters to stand in the center of his shop. He sets himself there, hands on his cane, feet spread apart. There is some question, after all, as to whether the savior will allow him to work diagonally of her or will fully oppose him. And he has learned, in his centuries, to expect the worst, always. The bell is reminder enough of that.

Emma takes a careful step forward (choosing her own battleground), sets her hands in her back pockets, her gaze focused and intent on Gold (her own battle stance of choice). “News travels fast around here,” she says dryly.

Gold allows himself a tiny shrug. “You’ve been deputy a week. I’d have had to be purposely deaf to avoid that piece of news by now. But I’m sure,” he adds, with a touch of deference, a shade of irony (a painter selecting his varying hues to set the mood of his masterpiece), “Sheriff Nolan has made a wise choice. Certainly the best option open to him considering…”

As expected, Emma narrows her eyes at the way he purposely lets the sentence trail off into nothing. “Considering what?” she demands, as blunt as her mother, as compassionate as her father.

Gold pauses, as if he is surprised by her lack of knowledge (though he thinks at this point he’d only be surprised by her if she _possessed_ knowledge of things beyond sight in Storybrooke). “Well,” he says softly. “I suppose if he hasn’t told you, I shouldn’t either. A man’s secrets are his own.”

And he is satisfied, because with these few words he has ensured that the curious, headstrong savior will pursue this until she discovers David’s curse-induced illness (and then she’ll have even greater reason to break the curse, won’t she?), and thus he has paid for whatever kindnesses David Nolan has shown him over twenty-eight years. Done, and done.

“Interested in antiques?” Gold (not Rumplestiltskin, just Mr. Gold) asks serenely in the instant Emma takes to digest his vague answer. “I’m sure there’s something in my shop that can interest you.”

“No.” Emma casts a distrustful glance at the whole of his shop, surveying and dismissing it with that single look, without thought to what treasures she is missing. (Just so does everyone do upon sight of dust motes and clutter; just so did everyone do in their old world when they came up against his darkness and his façade.) “I didn’t come here for anything from you.”

Gold frowns at her skeptically (and he’s playing his part, of course, but some expressions come more naturally than others). “Then what could you possibly be here for?”

Something in what he says makes her regard him a bit more closely. “I came to warn you,” she says slowly, as if just now recognizing her own motives. And perhaps she is. She seems a woman driven by instinct, by reaction and gut feelings. A raw, more primal sort of person than he is used to dealing with. A fascinating blend of her parents, stripped down to the basest elements, natural strengths allowed to shine undimmed.

“A warning?” Gold resettles his hands on his cane. “You do realize, I hope, that an unsolicited warning doesn’t count as a favor fulfilled or a debt cancelled.”

Her sigh of exasperation is large and gusty enough that if his prized objects were all dusty as the clutter makes one think, they’d all be swept clean and polished beneath the force of her irritation. “No wonder you don’t have any friends,” she mutters.

Gold feels himself go rigid, stiff, his mask all plastic and contrived so that he cannot twitch by even the scarcest iota lest it go shattering outward. (Because once he’d had the love of a son, boundless and pure, and it had been stolen from him; because once he’d had the companionship of the best soul he’d ever known, friendly and accepting, but he’d thrown it away on the whim of a whisper.)

“There’s a man here,” Emma says, oblivious to his pain (they always are, and he is grateful for it). “A stranger.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Gold says, and he can’t help that his words emerge dry and hollow, rattling one against another. He turns and makes his way back behind a counter, takes up his position there. (A retreat, but one he cannot avoid.)

Emma presses her advantage, steps closer, advancing but stopping before she reaches his barricade. “Well,” she snaps, shifting her feet, her hands at her side (changing her battle stance, her mode of attack, now that she has made him change his own). “Are you _aware_ that he’s just a bit too curious about _you_?”

Slowly, purposely, Gold tilts his head, stares at her. And speaks not a word. ( _Let them hang themselves, give over all their desperate desires and darkest fears to you_ —Zoso’s lessons, ringing in his ears as clearly as if he’d spoken them just hours before.)

“He’s asking questions about you,” Emma continues. “He’s also been tracing your usual routines. In fact, I’d almost say you have your very own stalker.”

“Really.” He cuts the word off so it doesn’t emerge at all as a question. It’s interesting, he thinks in a detached way, that she doesn’t seem to assume he knows this already. Interesting that for all she glares at him with piercing eyes and calls him out with fearless words, she still hasn’t seen past the mask he presents to outsiders (and in this, he is Storybrooke, tied to the constructed town with the origin he gave it, the manipulations he worked, the similarity of their positions). Interesting that for all her skepticism and wariness, she does not guess that he is more than an old pawnbroker with a limp, _more_ enough to be well aware of the moments Jones follows him, scampering from rooftop to rooftop above him, peering at him through his old spyglass. Interesting for many reasons, he thinks, but for now, it is all just barely enough to keep him above the virulent swell of fury and hatred and terror trying to sweep him away to stranded depths.

“He doesn’t seem to think too much of you,” Emma says with a half-shake of her head. As if she doesn’t understand the kind of ruthless malevolence Jones is capable of (but he thinks she _is_ aware of it, even if she pretends she is not, and he thinks that perhaps just the merest threat of harm to her son, to her guardian, would be enough to rouse her own dark depths and send them roaring to the surface).

There is only one word Gold can use (Rumplestiltskin could use so many more, violent and abusive words, but Gold can use only this one because there is still, for all Jones’ unwelcome presence, no sign of Bae). “Interesting,” he says, and that is all.

Emma’s brows rise almost to her hairline (an expression she’s inherited from Snow). “Interesting?” she repeats derisively. “ _That’s_ all you have to say?”

He tilts his head. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she snaps. “How about a little reaction to the fact that a stranger is stalking you. Or…” She frowns, turned speculative and insightful so quickly it manages to surprise him. “Is he not a stranger to you?”

“I’ve dealt with many people,” he says casually. “Not all of them are happy with the fine print.”

“I’ll bet,” she mutters.

“Come, Ms. Swan,” he chides with an amused smile, “You’re not regretting your own deal so soon, are you? Your friend is safe, after all, free and innocent, and you yourself have found a job and a home. I’d say it hasn’t turned out too badly for you so far.”

“ _I’d_ say you’re taking credit for a lot you had nothing to do with,” she retorts acerbically, and she shifts, restless, impatient. Confined and eager to be on her way (out of the monster’s lair) now that her warning’s been delivered and her conscience assuaged.

“Ah, yes,” Gold murmurs. “Because Mr. Booth wouldn’t have already been tried, convicted, and sentenced at the mayor’s behest if I hadn’t been present to ensure the proceedings were done at least halfway legally—dragging them out long enough to keep Mr. Booth safe until our missing mechanic could wander back into town.”

Emma frowns, and squints at him as if that will make him suddenly come into clear, sharp focus. She hesitates, then asks, “And have you decided what favor you’re going to ask of me?”

“Oh, not yet.” He waves a careless hand. “But don’t worry—I know how uncomfortable it can be, owing someone something. I’m sure I’ll be able to think of a way you can repay me, especially now that you’re deputy.”

“What does that mean?” she demands, full of bristling edges and sharp suspicion (and if she were her father, she would draw her sword and hold it between them, all steel and blade and protective instincts).

“Merely what I said,” he lies (because whatever favor he asks of her, this woman who finds missing people for a living and knows how to live and move and _think_ in and of this world, he doesn’t really think that a position as deputy will help too much). “And,” he adds serenely, “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay. I didn’t have the chance, earlier, to offer my welcome. Children can be a very powerful motive, can they not?”

She looks at him, subdued and silent, but beneath that edged stillness, he senses a maelstrom within her.

“Children are precious,” he tells her, gently lest that maelstrom explode outward to destroy everything in its path and leave her in shattered pieces behind it (he’s been where she stands; he’s felt his blood surge and his insides roil with conflicting, complementing fury and terror). “Use your time with him wisely, because that’s the thing about children—before you know it, you lose them.”

There is a frown caught half-formed across her features, a frown, a stare, a picture of confusion she can’t quite mask. She stares at Mr. Gold (and sees a glimmer of Rumplestiltskin) as if she’s never seen him before (the monster beneath the man), as if he is a rare breed she’s never encountered (and he is, but she can’t know why, not yet, not until she believes). But she says nothing, stays silent, because she is strong and stubborn and defiant and she will not admit to her astonishment.

So he takes pity on her (a parent separated from her child; a parent given another chance with her long lost son) and offers as much of a smile as he can summon. “Now, if there isn’t anything else, Deputy Swan…?”

And as quickly as that (taking the retreat he offers her), with a shake of her head and shoulders and the resettling of her stance (standing down and letting her weapons ease), she reclaims her poise and her brash boldness. “Yeah,” she mutters, awkward and confident at the same time. “Well, if this Jones causes you any trouble in the future, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says snidely (because he can only soften so much without bending and folding, and that is not something he can allow with both Cora and Jones after him).

She casts him a last glare as her parting statement, and that bell rings with a clatter that sends rippling bruises across his battered heart, and she is gone. But her warning echoes with the fading remnants of the bell, rattling around in his shop between relics of a world long gone and treasures of a world he helped create.

Jones is watching him. From afar. Quietly—and yet blatantly enough to draw attention to himself. Captain Jones, or Captain Hook as he styled himself after adjusting to the loss of his hand (as Rumplestiltskin could _never_ adjust to the loss of his son), has never been the subtlest of creatures, but he is wily and cunning in his own way, and Rumplestiltskin does not think he is as careless as his actions this past week make him seem.

It is a test. Bait, laid out in moments of letting Mr. Gold spot him on the rooftops with his spyglass and conversations with townsfolk where he lets his interest in Mr. Gold be known, and now the pirate waits, to see if Rumplestiltskin will take the bait, will betray himself and his memories. He waits to take his vengeance, until he can be certain that it is Rumplestiltskin and not Mr. Gold he approaches.

And there is no magic, and no Zoso, and still there is no Bae, so Mr. Gold must step carefully. He cannot allow himself to betray the fury and the terror and the panic and the cold, crafty calculation running through his veins. He must be cautious and pragmatic. He must not think of his boy, missing after all this time, gone when he should _not_ be (when he _should_ be with Hook as so many of Rumplestiltskin’s foretellings had shown him, leaving him sweating and so full of nightmares he could not sleep for decades upon decades). He cannot be Rumplestiltskin (a monster, but oh so powerful and moved so far beyond what Jones knew of him), but rather Mr. Gold (quiet but sinister, ignorant but oh so much more dangerous than most care to admit).

It’s hard, to keep to his old routines when he longs only to attack Hook and crush his windpipe and pull his tongue from his head until he begs to tell where Baelfire is, but nothing in life comes easily, and this is only more of the part he’s played for three decades. So he tinkers in his empty, lonely shop until lunchtime, when he walks, as he always does, down to the library. Not to enter it, nor even to look at it overly, but just to remind himself (in a more silent way than the bell) of what he could have but doesn’t (because that’s what he does: he loses things). He makes his usual circuit, his cane sounding its regular tap-tap-tapping against the concrete sidewalk, the townspeople avoiding him (save Dr. Hopper who gives him a slight smile and a nod as he passes by), and still it is not enough. Rumplestiltskin was as much a creature of habit as Mr. Gold, and his silence, his routines, prove nothing.

When he sees her, stumbling down the street, her grace turned to purposelessness, her elegance to submissiveness, her skirts so much more tamed in this world, he is first startled and then inspired. It is a move even Zoso would have smiled at, a gambit he feels _right_ with that sparking in his bloodstream, that thrill of adrenaline shooting through his mind like fireworks, illuminating what he needs and casting what he doesn’t into shadows.

Of course, he thinks. Of course it should be her to give him this edge, this reprieve from Jones’ thirst for vengeance.

If any of the townspeople watched him rather than pretended he did not exist (and he is glad they are back to normal now, back to dismissing him and fearing him from a distance), they would stop and stare to see him deviate from his routine. To see him turn from the direction of his shop and cross the street to make sure his own path intersects with that of the lowly nun walking, head down and eyes downcast, back toward the abbey.

“Good day, Sister Bleu,” Mr. Gold says, smoothly, innocently.

The woman who was once a fairy (the servant of the people who was once a star shining in the heavens) looks up, astonished and wide-eyed to see the pawnbroker standing before her, stopped in her path as if willing to converse with her. Mr. Gold has never interacted with the nuns, never betrayed his lingering dislike and distrust. But he has never had reason to stop one and smile pleasantly and make conversation as if they are acquaintances, and now he does.

“Mist—Mister Gold,” she stammers, and this is _Cora’s_ revenge on the Blue Fairy who shunned her and dismissed her attempts at magic, but Rumplestiltskin shivers at the ecstasy of the moment, as if it is _he_ who planned it and carried it out. To see the woman who shone with goodness and glowed with kindness and sparkled with righteousness now reduced to a penniless, all-but-homeless, anonymous woman—to see the leader of good magic, the brightest star of light, nothing more than one in a long line of identical nuns serving their clumsy Mother Superior with her exuberant smiles and generous gestures (her schemes that leave the abbey bankrupt, her mistakes that leave the nuns with nothing, her ineptness leaving them all as ineffectual workers of good), is to see some form of justice dispensed. The monsters of the dark are left to make their dealings in secret, and the monsters of the light are left nibbling at the crumbs on the edges, and Rumplestiltskin feels, for just an instant, the lingering vestiges of his admiration for Cora stir and lift feebly from the ashes of all their past.

But the moment passes, and Storybrooke comes back into focus around him, and it is only one more victim of the curse before him, and Mr. Gold’s smile withers and dies (and that echo of his feelings for Cora falls back into dust). If Jones were not watching, if Gold weren’t doing this to prove that he is _not_ Rumplestiltskin (for Rumplestiltskin would never smile at a fairy and strike up a banal conversation with the _Blue_ Fairy of all people), he would make his excuses and leave. But he is proving a point and Jones is watching, so Mr. Gold forces the hint of a smile.

“A bit cold lately,” he says, because nothing is duller, more _normal_ , than speaking of the weather, but Mr. Gold has time and patience to spare for such meaningless prattle. “I do hope the abbey is warm enough.”

Sister Bleu looks stunned to hear him professing concern for her and her sisters (as well she should, he thinks testily), but she manages to stammer out a reassurance.

“Wonderful,” he says. A longer conversation might cement the moment, the reassurance, for Jones, but too long standing here and Cora might hear of it and suspect him of waking her enemies against her (might lead to him saying something he shouldn’t or doing something he can’t do quite yet), so he musters up yet another smile and continues on his way, ignoring Sister Bleu’s disbelieving eyes following him down the street.

He doesn’t want to cause suspicion, doesn’t want to do anything but give Jones time to assimilate what these last minutes mean, and so he cannot simply turn and head straight back to his shop. Instead, he takes a long walk around the block, the clock-tower always visible from the corner of his eye, before he returns to his shop.

By the time that bell rings over his head, his leg burns, his hand is cramped around the head of his cane, and his neck prickles with the feel of the pirate’s eyes on his back. But his mind is sharp and cool and clear as diamonds in the sky, and he has bought himself more time to wait and watch and plan, and if there is one quality he possesses above all others, it is patience.

\---

As much as things are spiraling out of direct control, as drastically as her quiet realm is changing, Cora is still in control (still holds power like straw turned to gold at her fingertips), because she is aware of several things. First, Captain Killian Jones has come to town, strolling in as casually as if there is no curse separating Storybrooke from this grimmer world, and he is as wearyingly intent on Rumplestiltskin as ever, skulking about as if she will not notice him. Secondly, Rumplestiltskin is very good at hiding his own awareness, so good that she begins to believe there has never been a Mr. Gold at all, only a Rumplestiltskin wearing a mask that fits as close as bone. And thirdly, she is aware, very _much_ aware, that the changes in her town can only mean this Emma Swan is the savior she was warned of (the infant she had sought yet never found), and that the pirate offers her the opportunity of gaining an ally.

Alliances are tricky things, and Cora usually prefers to avoid them when possible (she learned, upon waking in this world and finding things somewhat different than she’d been promised, that allies offer a fraction of advantage and a world of disappointment and betrayal), but with only three people in town knowing the truth—and one of them being a Rumplestiltskin who has something to do with Emma’s arrival—it is the pragmatic thing to do to approach Jones and offer him Rumplestiltskin in exchange for aid. After all, it is not as if she has any use for the old man anymore, and the pirate has always had a knack for finding whatever it is he needs no matter how impossible it might seem.

She doesn’t approach him immediately, though. First, she watches him from afar (spying on the spy), lets her newspaper editor approach him, sees how familiar Jones seems to be with the technology of this world, his car parked outside Granny’s, his room paid for with a credit card in the name of Jones. He has been here a while, Cora decides, and he is looking to kill Rumplestiltskin, and the only thing she can’t quite figure out is how he managed to find her hidden town.

Jones likes to frequent the Rabbit Hole (when he isn’t stalking Mr. Gold, who does a spectacular impression of the ignorant), a low, dark establishment Cora has never stepped foot inside before this but that suits him like a hand-shaped glove for his left stump. He makes casual friends who feed him information, and gathers a few weak-minded individuals around him as cronies to replace the crew he’s lost somewhere between Neverland and this world without magic. They know nothing he wants to know, can offer him no advantage, but Hook is a pirate who has always liked to surround himself with gibbering rats to remind him of his ‘innate’ superiority, so Cora rolls her eyes and lets him have his crumbs of power.

As often as he hunts his dangerous prey or carouses with rats masquerading as men, there are still moments when he is alone. When he walks down dark alleyways with no one else around. When he is most susceptible to the approach of someone who can give him exactly what he wants. For a price (she did not have Rumplestiltskin as a teacher for nothing, after all), at a time of her choosing (alliance or not, _she_ is the one in charge), and, most importantly, for her own reasons (because it is not easy to forgive Rumplestiltskin for holding her heart and thinking he can defeat her).

Cora holds her coat close to her side, clasps her hands in front of her, and steps into the open behind Jones. “I know you,” she says. “Or should I say, I know _of_ you.”

The pirate whirls at her first word, suspicion and alarm and danger casting edges and shadows across the planes of his face for only an instant before they melt away in favor of a smile closer to a smirk and wide eyes that scream innocence so loudly it can only be a lie. “Really?” he asks, as if they do not stand alone in a shadowed alley in a corner of town where no one would hear either of them scream (most likely, he thinks it will be _her_ screaming, but she will never scream again, certainly not for filth like him).

“I do,” she says, and smiles back at him, the curve of her lips as real as his own.

“And why would you think that?” He tilts his head and studies her, and for an instant, she swells, complacent and content with the power of her name and reputation. For an instant, she is the Wicked Queen again, a title so much more rewarding than mayor of a town no one knows about.

“Because unlike everyone else in this town,” she says, “I remember—who I really am. Where I come from.” It’s easy to tilt her head in apparent amusement, to smile as if he shakes the joke with her even though only one missing person could truly share it. “And, of course, the stories of a legendary pirate who traveled to new worlds.”

“A strange story,” he says with a shrug and a flick of his eyes to gauge how alone they are, how close she is to him, how easily she will fall beneath his attack. “One you’re likely to hear only in select places.”

“Well, this isn’t my first journey away from home.” Cora shrugs delicately. “And when in far realms, one hears of the most peculiar kinds of people.”

“I see. And just who might you be?”

She thinks he knows already. There is a gleam in his eyes, a tension to his body, and he angles away from her rather than looms over her. He knows she is dangerous (but perhaps he is only a survivor, able to tell with no more than a glance and a word who to charm and who to kill). Regardless, she takes pleasure in breathing out her name, feels a visceral thrill surge like alcohol through her veins. “Cora,” she says. (Not Mayor Mills, not a useless title and a name that speaks of humble beginnings; just the name that breaks and topples and rules without shattering itself.)

“Ah.” Hook betrays no surprise, and Cora allows herself pleasure in that, too, that her name is recognized even as far off as he has traveled. “The Wicked Queen, spoken of with particular fear in Wonderland.”

Cora smiles through the pain (through the memories, through the feel of silk and skin and bone beneath her hand, the heart held pulsing in her fist, the startled, betrayed look in his eyes when it turned to powder and fell to become the foundational ground of Storybrooke). “I prefer ‘Her Majesty.’”

“Don’t we all?” Hook leers at her. He means to be off-putting, but she only finds him amusing; her smile turns condescending. “Now,” he says, straightening, “if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“I know what you want,” she interrupts him, her voice like velvet unfurling slowly, languidly. It’s easier to convince everyone of her power, to frighten them, by showing no sign that she cares one way or the other (this lesson she learned on her own; Rumplestiltskin has still not learned it). “And I can get it for you…if you do something for me.”

Hook scoffs, black and angular against the light limning his form. “I highly doubt you know what I’m after, Queen or not,” he says, and he turns, as if she will let him leave so easily. As if he thinks her as blinded as all her subjects.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she whispers. The name echoes, sucked in by the damp stone buildings boxing them in, soaking into misty air. She almost imagines that the very bones of Storybrooke shake to hear the name spoken out loud after all this time. An alien name, once silvered with magic, now spoken in a world that laughs at it and thinks it nothing more than any other name, ineffectual and childish.

Hook freezes in his tracks, as porous and trembling as their surroundings. The mask, when he turns back toward her, has fallen like brittle paper away from his features, leaving only the blank remnants of his character behind.

Cora takes a step nearer him, slowly, confidently. “You want Rumplestiltskin dead to sate your eternal thirst for vengeance,” she says, his secrets held ransom in her mouth. “Too bad he’s not here.”

“Don’t play games with me, _Cora_ ,” Hook snarls, his smirks and leers vanished like steam before fire. “He’s definitely here—I’ve already found him.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Gold.” And she laughs, to feel Storybrooke settle back down into submission at this more mundane name. “A pawnbroker, relatively harmless, though a bit more of a schemer than I might prefer.” Her smile slips away, and she lets a glimmer of her own reality peek through her masks, honesty to meet sincerity. “He doesn’t remember who he is, and thinks Rumplestiltskin no more than a fairytale. Hard to get your revenge on a man who doesn’t even know who you are or why you’re after him.”

He arches a brow at her. “And you can make him remember?”

“I’m the one who cast the curse that brought everyone here. Don’t you recognize all these people you’ve been fooling for the past week?”

“Yeah,” Hook shrugs and runs a thumb down his chin. “Been a little while since I was last in the Enchanted Forest. The faces are a bit different.”

“Well, every one of them is from our world. I brought them all here, cursed them to their now hopeless lives.” She’d felt little of the victory she’d expected, waking in this cursed town that first day; she’d felt only hollow and old, as if the lack of magic reminded her of what she’d once been. But now, saying the words out loud, claiming this curse for the first time…well, it makes her feel even more like the Wicked Queen than Hook’s recognition did. It makes her feel _real_ , makes her blood sing with long-belated triumph. “ _I_ turned Rumplestiltskin into Mr. Gold,” she says smugly, wonderingly, “and I can turn Mr. Gold into Rumplestiltskin.”

Hook deliberates, silent, for no more than an instant before he forces a smile and spreads his arms wide to her. “Well then…what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find out everything you can about Mr. Gold,” she replies instantly. “Where he goes, who he talks to, where he keeps everything—his habits and routines.”

A few drunken men exit the Rabbit Hole and stumble past the alleyway, their voices distant and fading behind them. Neither Cora nor Hook turn to look at them, neither willing to break the stare of the other. Finally, after a breathless moment, Hook blinks at her. “Let me get this straight…you want me to tell you everything about _Mr. Gold_ , so you can give me _Rumplestiltskin_? How does that work exactly?”

“He might have something I want,” Cora answers, tightening the sash of her coat.

“Rumplestiltskin?” Hook asks, gaze more astute than she likes. “Or Mr. Gold?”

“Both,” she says shortly. “Rumplestiltskin realized its value; Mr. Gold may not. Whether he recognizes it or not, I need the object. It will lead me to an associate of his.”

“I thought you said you’re the one who brought everyone—why don’t you already know where this certain person is?”

“There were a few loopholes,” she admits grudgingly (and newly recognizes the blessings in existing among a town full of people who don’t know enough to question her). “Surely you must know magic always presents a cost.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally. “And just who is this associate?”

Cora studies him a long moment, weighing the pros and cons of letting him into her confidence. Allies are dangerous things, temperamental and delicate, this pirate perhaps more than most considering his complete disregard for anything but seeking his own ends. But he is here, and he will help her because no one else can possibly give him what he wants (or so he thinks, and so Rumplestiltskin will allow him to think lest he find himself vulnerable and weak before the magic-less pirate), and in the end, it is better to have an ally who understands what is at stake. If he chooses to betray her at a later date, he will pay.

“In our world, he went by Zoso,” she says, and is rewarded by Hook arching a doubtful brow at her.

“Zoso?”

“The Dark One,” she elaborates. “Rumplestiltskin controlled him.”

Hook nods in sudden understanding, his expression immediately comprehending (and Cora feels that perhaps she made a mistake in telling him). “The dagger,” he says.

Tense and wary (more wary than she should need to be for a simple pirate), Cora narrows her eyes at him. “Yes. The dagger. I want it. You find me the dagger, I control Zoso, and then I’ll bring Rumplestiltskin back for you to kill. Without the Dark One on a leash, Rumplestiltskin is less than nothing.”

“So,” Hook drawls, leaning against the molding brick wall behind him, “you get the Dark One, I get my vengeance, and Storybrooke continues in ignorance.”

“A perfect deal,” Cora says.

“ _If_ it all works out.” Hook straightens and drops his arms back to his sides. “How do you know Zoso didn’t keep his memories? Maybe he already has his own dagger.”

“The loophole he used to hide allowed only _one_ person to retain their old memories—and I have mine.” She smiles, then, careful not to give a tell at the almost-lie. As many lessons as he taught her unknowingly, by unwilling example, she does have Rumplestiltskin to thank for imparting the importance of wording such as this. Almost-lies and nearly-truths are so much more fun (and so much safer) than direct deceit.

“And what if something goes wrong or this Mr. Gold”—his lips curl up over the name—“does realize the importance of his dagger? Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t particularly fancy facing the Dark One, not unless I’m sure Rumplestiltskin won’t be walking away from the encounter either.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I have a contingency plan for that.” Cora laughs, then, and steps right up to Hook, runs a hand down his chest and lets her voice lower to a rumble. “A certain valuable chess piece I’ve been holding in reserve for quite a long time. You see, _I_ have something Rumplestiltskin wants.”

“Really?” Hooks scoffs. He doesn’t step back, but he is rigid beneath her gloved touch. “You obviously don’t have the dagger and that’s the only thing Rumplestiltskin cares about.”

“The only thing?” she murmurs, and watches his eyes narrow, feels his solid muscles turn to iron. His masks disappear again, his eyes old and bitter and perhaps just the tiniest bit frightened. “What I hold isn’t a _thing_. It’s a _whom_.”

He is still. Motionless. He doesn’t even breathe. “A person,” he says, his voice so soft she can’t feel the ripple caused by it though she’s only inches away from him. “A person he wants?”

“Yes, someone Rumplestiltskin actually does care about.” She lets her lips twist over that, then banishes the bitterness as useless. “The only person the infamous Rumplestiltskin—and, I believe, even Mr. Gold—would sell away his own soul for.”

Hook swallows, the noise audible in the quiet alleyway. He looks all around then, as if this person will magically appear before him, and Cora notes that she wasn’t mistaken earlier—he is afraid. He is _terrified_ , and not of Rumplestiltskin. He looks as if he is haunted by ghosts (and alliances always fall apart, and she will need a failsafe for him, too, so she tucks aside this observation for later).

“And where are you keeping him,” the pirate asks, “this chess piece of yours?”

“Oh, Captain,” Cora smirks, “like I’d give that away to you. Don’t worry. I’m keeping her very safe.”

There is a long moment of silence before Hook relaxes beneath her touch. His masks fall back over his features, and he stares at her in puzzlement. “A woman? He cares for a _woman_?”

Cora lets out the hint of a laugh. “Belle is her name, and yes, he does care for her. In fact, she’s the only one Rumplestiltskin has ever let get away.”

“Interesting,” Hook breathes, and Cora smiles (a real smile, or as close as she can come to it anymore).

He’s hers (Rumplestiltskin and Mr. Gold; Hook; Zoso; all of them). Her playthings. Her pawns.

Her victims.

“So,” she drawls, “is it a deal?”

And when he smiles at her, she smiles back.

\---

Mary Margaret hates the end of the month for two reasons. She hates that it is when rent is due even though she doesn’t get paid until the first of the month, and she hates the dinners Cora hosts on the last day of each month for those in town she considers influential (or simply wishes to cow). Not that Mary Margaret is invited to these dinners, of course (or that she wants to be), but when she still met David for interludes of flirtation and possibilities at the hospital, he was always quiet and withdrawn before and after the monthly dinners, and she herself was tense and edgy.

“Thank you,” Regina says yet again, and Mary Margaret manages another smile, though she can feel them getting tighter, more brittle, with each repetition. “It’s nothing,” she lies, flicking a careful glance over Regina’s shoulder to the door to make certain the mayor doesn’t surprise them all with a confrontation. “You know I like spending time with Henry.”

“Right,” Regina says, nervous and tense. Her make-up is impeccable, her sleek skirt and jacket look as if they come straight from magazines Mary Margaret can’t afford to even look at, her hair is smooth in the right places and curled up at the ends, and still she is wan and worried, eyes tight beneath mascara, lips bitten beneath gloss, knuckles white beneath crisp sleeves.

Tests. That’s what these dinners really are, Mary Margaret thinks, not for the first time. Tests of Regina, to see if she will bring Henry this time (as Cora always demands she do yet never calls her out for failing to do), to see if her daughter can match up to whatever demands Cora places on her concerning the others she invites.

Tests for the others, too. Spencer, the only one besides David and Regina that is invited to every meal, and Mary Margaret isn’t sure what Cora expects of him, but she knows that there is something there, something he must do or show to make Cora invite him again the next month. Sometimes, the District Attorney is there, and sometimes he is not. Sometimes there are others, and sometimes there are only a handful, and Mary Margaret thinks that maybe the fluctuating numbers are their own kind of test, too (and tries hard not to think too much about what it might prove to the mayor).

And, of course, a test for David. He never spoke of it, not really, not in so many words, but it was there in the things he didn’t say and the bitterness that crept along the edges of his voice in the days he’d meet her after the dinners, in the abstracted distance to his gaze that even her best attempts couldn’t break. She knows (though she can’t remember how, or who betrayed it, or when she first discovered it) that it was at one of these monthly dinners that Cora defeated David’s grand plans for exposing her and saving Regina from her mother’s clutches. It was at one of these dinners that David lost his hope and his faith and his steadfast belief that they would one day be able to see what Storybrooke could be like without Cora in charge.

But that was a long time ago, and it has been a month since she’s last spoken with David, and right now, Regina and Henry need her, so Mary Margaret pushes aside her own helpless bitterness and turns to give a better attempt at a smile to Henry. “We don’t mind staying up here and having our own little dinner, do we, Henry?”

The boy nods and grants his mother a dazzling smile that does more to reassure her than Mary Margaret’s ever could. “It’s okay,” he tells Regina. “We’ll be fine. Mary Margaret said I could eat cereal.”

“Cereal?” Regina tilts her head curiously, one hand framing Henry’s cheek as if she’s afraid to let go lest he vanish right in front of her. “ _That’s_ what you want for dinner?”

“It’s better than sushi,” the boy points out with an exaggerated shudder, and Regina lets out something close to a laugh.

“Whatever you want,” she promises, and then it’s time for her to leave. Mary Margaret hates watching her go (feels like a coward for sending off the sheep to dinner with the wolves), but she is relieved anyway because once Regina is gone, there is no need for Cora to come into the back of the house where Mary Margaret and Henry take refuge.

“Be careful,” she tells Regina (for all that the words are useless and she has no authority at all to make certain her friend isn’t harmed), and closes the door, wishes there was a lock for it, just in case. She lets her hand rest on the doorknob for a long moment, marshalling her strength, before she turns back to Henry with a smile fixed in place. (Wrong, this is all wrong, the entire situation, but it is what it is, and this is Storybrooke and that means it won’t change, so no use regretting it when all they can do is live with it.)

“It’s okay,” Henry tells her, his tone so kind, his expression so reassuring that Mary Margaret is frozen beneath the conflicting compulsions to laugh, to swallow back a lump in her throat, to hug the small boy, and to take him, hold onto him, and run until he is far, _far_ away from the mayor and her manipulative power-plays.

Instead, though, she only smiles and nods. “Right. So. What kind of cereal do you have?”

Henry’s resilient and compassionate and wise, but just enough of a child that he is distracted by sugary cereal, enthusiastic and eager and able to distract her in turn from the stilted nightmarish façade happening downstairs in the elaborate dining hall between vases of ornate floral arrangements and glistening chandeliers and too-long tables (from the knowledge that David, whom she hasn’t seen for weeks and weeks, is so very close, trapped in place where he wouldn’t be able to run from her should she confront him about his caginess and his absences and the rumors of his growing weakness).

Henry is also helpful, so she thinks he’s right behind her when she stands to take their dishes into the kitchen, thinks that he is following her with the milk and the cereal. But when she turns, he isn’t there, and the room where they ate is empty, and terror starts to grow within her, a hard knot of panic, because she promised Regina she’d watch over Henry but now he is gone and the mayor is so close and—

And there he is, sitting at the head of the stairs, peering down, down, down at the edges of the dining room where light spills out and voices echo and spiral through cavernous rooms to reach his ears.

“Henry!” Mary Margaret hisses, but the boy only turns and shushes her before refocusing his attention on the remnants, the pieces, of action below that can reach them. Mary Margaret has only the best of intentions (is eager and afraid, her hands itching to pull him away and back to safety), but then it’s David’s voice that reaches her, touches her, caresses her, confidence and weariness in equal measures, and instead of leaving, she finds herself plopping down next to Henry. Her hand curls over the railings of the bannister, side by side with Henry’s smaller hands, and the lacquered wood is cool against her forehead as she leans forward, strains, desperate to hear more of David’s voice.

“The case is still ongoing, due to Billy’s condition and memory loss, not to mention all the blood,” he’s saying. His tone is professional, but Mary Margaret doesn’t need to _see_ him to hear the tension underlying his voice. “I’m sure you understand, then, that I can’t discuss it with anyone.”

“Oh, come now!” snaps a voice Mary Margaret can’t quite place. Perhaps Mr. Herman? “We’re all respected leaders of the community here; we all know the meaning of discretion. You can surely tell _us_ if you think the outsider is really innocent. That blood didn’t come from nowhere.”

“And a man wandering lost and dazed for _eight_ days?” Spencer adds, his bass voice unmistakable. “Almost impossible to believe it was all accidental. I’d say it points to drugs or some other equally illegal means of getting a man out of the way.”

“Pure speculation,” David says, and now there’s a thread of steel blatant for all to hear. “I hope your paper relies more on facts than rumors.”

Cora’s laugh is light and merry and so cold that Mary Margaret half-expects the shuddering breath she lets out to expel frosted mist before her lips. “Funny that _you_ would caution against listening to rumors, Sheriff Nolan,” she says, all light tone and heavy implication. “I think we all remember how far _you_ fell the last time you let your imagination get away with you.”

There is silence for a long moment. Mary Margaret wants to leap to her feet, charge down the stairs, come to his defense, lash out at them that they all know what really happened and it isn’t David’s fault. But she is frozen, motionless, afraid to even breathe in case Cora and that roomful of her cruel minions turn their attention to her (and she wonders if David has stopped seeing her because he realized she is a coward).

“Mother…” Regina’s voice is soft and breathy, but it is there, a pale, faded echo of the defense Mary Margaret wants to provide for David, and it is too short, too little, and overlooked with hardly any trouble at all, but at least it’s _something_. At least David knows he is not entirely alone in that room.

“I think his imagination has run away with him again,” Spencer states as if Regina didn’t speak at all (Mary Margaret can see Cora in her head, conducting her symphony of allusions and shadowy accusations with a twitch of her finger, a roll of her eyes, a thin smile; a maestro of broken dreams and painful reminders). “Hiring the other outsider as his deputy? Surely there were better options.”

“She has experience and was looking for a job,” David says, so quietly Mary Margaret has to press her temples painfully against the warming bannister to hear him. “And it’s in the budget—I have the authority to hire a deputy if I need one.”

“Oh, yes,” Cora says, and the false sympathy in her voice is so cloying that Henry actually makes a gagging noise. “And we all know how hard things have been getting for you lately, David. Dr. Whale’s very concerned for you, as are we all. I simply hope another deputy is the right decision for you to make. It’s obvious you’re going to have to step down eventually—might as well not put it off too long.”

There’s something heavy, something impossibly slow and ponderous moving outward from the pit in her stomach, and Mary Margaret has to stand before she turns to stone. Has to reach out blindly and grab at Henry’s shirt and pull him up, back, away, trying to save him (save _herself_ ) from hearing anymore (hearing Cora and her flock of carrion-eaters circle David and tear him to pieces, strip his dignity and his respect and his remaining days from him chunk by bloody chunk).

Henry protests (quietly, so quietly, such a young child to already know so clearly the consequences of having Cora’s attention turned on him) and David says something else, something about being fine (but he’s lying, he’s wearing a mask, he’s doing as he always does and pretending he’s fine even though he’s dying right in front of them all), but Mary Margaret doesn’t listen. She’s not powerful, not strong, not a warrior or leader or anyone capable of standing against the mayor, but she can slam the door between Henry and those poisonous words (the reminder of David’s mortality and the proof of how bad his prognosis is), can stand like a barrier between Regina’s son and Regina’s mother (and David is still out there, alone and unprotected and vulnerable, and she wants to reach out and grab him, wants to bring him into her flimsy protection, but he’s too far away, outside her reach). She's only strong enough to _pretend_ she’s strong. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it has to do.

Henry watches her with wide, knowing eyes, and when she offers to play a board game with him, he gives her a reassuring smile and lets himself be distracted (agrees for her sake, takes care of her, just as he does so often for Regina), and they spend the next hour throwing dice and moving game-pieces and drawing cards, letting forced laughter and determined cheerfulness drown out the sound of pain in David’s voice, the malevolent triumph in Cora’s, the oily satisfaction in everyone else’s (the silence from Regina, forced to sit down there and watch and smile at her mother’s barbs).

When Regina finally knocks at the door Mary Margaret closed (a timid tap-tap-tap-tap, quiet but persistent), Mary Margaret is more than ready to be done with this day, this evening, this favor. She rises and moves toward the door, but it’s already swinging open. When it creaks aside to reveal a wan, hunched Regina, Mary Margaret instinctively takes her into a close, tight embrace (remembering that one quiet word to distract from David). She feels Regina’s shoulder blades beneath her hands, beneath her silk blouse, sharp and protruding and quivering ever so slightly. Mary Margaret clasps her tighter, gentler, then pulls her inside the room and closes the wooden door once more (sets the barricades and raises the moat and pretends this fortress actually has walls).

“You’re all right,” she says once, firmly, and steps aside to let Henry rush into Regina’s arms and prove her right.

Maybe she should stay awhile, make sure Regina and Henry have survived another of these monthly meetings, but this might be her only chance, her only opportunity. For right this moment, she knows where David is and she can reach him (the man, not the sheriff), and if she can reach him, then maybe she can hold on, can keep him with her.

So she gives both Regina and Henry another encompassing hug, and slips away, down the staircase, out the back door, around the lawn until she sees the squad car sitting there across the street. (And only now does she remember she left the milk out, sitting on the card table she and Henry ate at, but it’s surely spoiled already and she can’t turn back, has to be brave and press on and call out his name.)

“David,” she says, as if she saw him just by chance, as if she walks by the mayor’s house every day.

He startles, then turns to look at her, and her heart jumps a bit at the immediate smile springing to his lips (small and tight and even pained, but it’s there). “Mary Margaret,” he says, like it’s a dream (like he doesn’t think she really exists in his life).

“David,” she says again. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too.” He hesitates for a second, but he closes the car door he opened before her call and turns so he can face her. Mary Margaret takes a tiny step back, tells herself it is because he is taller than she expected, not because she is afraid and her heart threatens to rattle out of her chest.

She takes a deep breath, but he’s looking at her like he’s drinking her in and this is what she’s wanted to say since her breaks at the hospital started becoming lonely and quiet, so she gathers her bravery and admits, “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah.” His smile is caught between dopey pleasure and strained regret. “I’ve missed you too.”

“You have?” Mary Margaret bites back her grin before it can scare him off. “Well…where have you been? I haven’t seen you at the hospital lately.”

“Yeah.” David stares a moment longer, making her blush in the cold night air, before he shifts and looks away. “I haven’t been going.”

Her stomach drops through her feet. “What?” She frowns at him, certain she must have misheard (seeing all over again the shadows like bruises on his face, the shakiness of his hands, the way he leans back against the car; hearing all over again Cora’s “Dr. Whale’s very concerned for you”). “David, you…”

“I don’t have to,” he says, and for all he should sound like a petulant child, he sounds calm, like a man who’s made up his mind. It terrifies her down to the very marrow of her bones, a cold, clammy chill that makes her suddenly go dizzy and as shaky as him.

“You can’t…” she starts, but has to stop before she looses what she really wants to say ( _“You can’t die!”_ ). “You can’t give up,” she says instead.

David’s smile is almost pitying, the very opposite of comforting. “I’m dying, Mary Margaret.” It’s the tear he can’t quite hide, trickling down his cheek, that breaks through her chilled numbness to let her know this is real, this is happening, and any chance she has of stopping it is slipping away like an untrained bird from her hands. “I’ve _always_ been dying,” he continues obliviously, as if he doesn’t realize he’s crying. “I just used to think there was a chance I wouldn’t.”

“There is!” she interrupts furiously. “There’s always hope!”

He squints, and at first she wonders what she’s said that he doesn’t understand until she realizes that he’s just keeping more of his tears from falling. “Five months,” he says softly (a death knell). His hand shakes when he wipes away his single tear, and no more fall, and he looks drained of everything. “I have five months left, and there’s nothing they can do. So I can’t see you anymore.”

Swiftly, urgently, she takes a step forward, reaches out a hand to grab hold of him (to yank him away from death’s door), but lets it fall before it reaches him. He is standing right in front of her, but she feels as if there is a great divide like a chasm cutting between them, a distance she can’t bridge. “I don’t care!” she insists (and tastes the lie of it, heavy on her tongue). “We can still—”

“No.” David shakes his head, his unearthly calm fracturing. He takes in a shuddering breath, leans back farther against the car. “ _I_ care,” he says more quietly. “Mary Margaret, when I’m with you…when I’m with you, everything’s perfect. It’s beautiful— _you’re_ beautiful—and I start to think of what it would be like to have today and tomorrow and the next day. To have a future with you. To be like this forever. I start to hope.”

Her smile is tremulous, fragile, because he’s saying everything she’s ever wanted to hear him say, but she knows this isn’t a happy ending. She knows, somehow, that this is goodbye (and she wishes she’d gone back to save the milk instead of seeking him out and forcing this conversation and losing her chance to pretend that they still had a hope of a future).

“But then,” he says slowly, “you leave, or I leave, and I’m alone again, and reality comes crashing back down on me. There _is_ no tomorrow, no future, not with _or_ without you. There’s just the cancer and five months.” He swallows. There is another single tear winding a tragic trail down his cheek (and she wonders if that is all the pain eating him up from the inside out will let him betray). “And that’s okay,” he says, belying the tear and the pain his voice. “It is. I’m okay with dying.”

“David,” she whispers, but he acts as if he can’t hear her. As if he’s already gone and she’s speaking to his ghost.

“But I’m not okay with hoping with you and then being disappointed without you over and over and over again. _I_ can’t do that, can’t keep dreaming and waking up and then dreaming again only to wake up again.” David nods, as if he’s rehearsed this speech and finally said it just the right way. “So that’s why I haven’t been going to the hospital. It’s why I haven’t been seeing you. I thought it would be better for you to be mad at me or to hate me than for me to break your heart as much as mine.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head, eager to overcome this and get back to the place where they’re together and happy (and the cancer is something neither of them acknowledges). “David, that’s ridiculous,” she says.

He flinches, then, heavily, as if she’s struck him. Then he nods, slowly, disjointedly, his tears locked back away beneath flawed skin. “Ridiculous,” he repeats flatly. “Well, ridiculous or not, I can’t do this. To you or to me.”

She isn’t quite sure how, but she’s hurt him, has struck at him as much as the sickness inside him has. “David,” she says (his name, over and over and over, an echo of things leaving, gone, missed opportunities), and starts forward, but he’s already gone, already opening his car door and ducking inside and slamming the door shut between them (and she slammed a door, too, but that was to protect and this is to shut out). He stops, then, his hands clenched over the steering wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and Mary Margaret freezes, filled with as much hope as regret.

“Goodbye, Mary Margaret,” he says (soundlessly since the door’s between them, but she reads his lips and the slow, lingering way he shapes the words), and then the engine roars to life and he’s beyond where she can reach.

She stands alone in the street, in the dark, in front of the mayor’s grand house, and she wonders why nothing in life ever turns out. She wonders why she’s always losing.

She wonders if she will ever recover from this.

\---


End file.
